


We're Going to the End of the Line

by thewriterinallofus



Series: Life is a Song That Goes on Forever [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Camping, Dancing, Dorks in Love, Ducks, F/M, Films, First Kiss, Hotels, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kissing, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, M/M, Multi, Music, Road Trips, Singing, Strip Poker, Tattoos, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3478058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriterinallofus/pseuds/thewriterinallofus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final part of the "Hospitals, Movies, and Road Trips" trilogy. Les Amis go on a road trip, and notice that Enjolras and Grantaire are behaving...differently. As in, they're not trying to kill each other. As in, these two idiots might actually be figuring things out, and the tension between these dorks might *finally* end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday Night and the Lights Are Low

**Author's Note:**

> And so we have come to the final chapter of this trilogy. You need to have read "Make Me" for this to make much sense. If you like, you can probably skip "Before the Fire Dies," which is part 1, but certain aspects of parts 2 and 3 will be easier to understand. Bear in mind that I do not own any of the songs I mention, and I certainly do not own Les Mis. I also am unbetaed, so any and all mistakes are my own. The title of this work is taken from the fabulous road trip song, "End of the Line," by The Traveling Wilburys.  
> That being said, I hope you enjoy!

One Friday night in Mid-July, the Amis met to finalize their plans for a road trip that they’d been planning for ages.

“Hey, where’s Enjolras,” Joly asked.

“He has a prior engagement,” Combeferre answered nonchalantly.

Les Amis turned to face the bespectacled man incredulously.

“What sort of engagement,” Cosette asked.

Courf stood angrily. “Yeah! Why didn’t I know about this?”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “He just told me to take notes for him, because he couldn’t make the meeting. I didn’t ask why. I trust him.”

“You’d better take some for Grantaire too,” Éponine called across the room. “Couldn’t get him to leave his apartment. Said something about inspiration striking.”

Ferre raised a brow suspiciously. “Call him at some point.”

 

* * *

 

While their friends were plotting their trip, Enjolras and Grantaire were singing.

Tonight they at Aire’s place, watching “Mamma Mia.”

“ **You can dance! You can jive! Having the time of your life! Ooooohh!** ”

“ **See that girl! Watch that scene! Digging the dancing queen!** ”

They collapsed in a breathless heap on the floor. “That...was...amazing.”

Grantaire chuckled and raised a brow. “I never thought I’d hear someone say that so breathlessly after singing _‘_ Dancing Queen _.’_ ”

Enjolras gently pushed Grantaire’s head to the side, a dazzling grin on his face. “Shut up.”

Grantaire raised one eyebrow suggestively. “Make me.”

Both boys froze.

It had been the same thing every Friday. Enjolras delivered the line, Grantaire did something sweet, careful not to overstep his bounds, and the blonde was left wanting more.

Grantaire had just stolen the line, and now the ball was in Enjolras’ court; there was no telling what might happen.

Enjolras realized that this was his chance to show Grantaire how he felt, and his hand shot out, cupping the artist’s face.

Aire’s eyes went wide, and his breath caught. Enjolras brushed his thumb over Grantaire’s cheekbone, searching the brunet’s face.

Grantaire chanced a glance at the blonde’s lips, then looked up questioningly.

Oh. This is why Grantaire hadn't taken his many opportunities. He was waiting for Enjolras to make the first move, and the blonde hadn’t taken the hint. Grantaire must assume that Enjolras didn’t want to make a move.

He swallowed hard, and leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut.

Grantaire’s eyes were wide. “ _It’s finally happening._ ”

The revolutionary’s lips just brushed the artist’s, sending electric sparks down both participants’ spines, when Grantaire’s phone rang.

“Goddammit,” Grantaire muttered.“I’m sorry,” He squinted at the phone. “It’s Éponine. What the hell does she want?” He pressed the answer button. “Hello?”

“Yo, Grantaire! What’s shakin’, bacon?” Grantaire yanked the phone away from his ear; Éponine had obviously put him on speaker, so that the other Amis could hear him.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow, wondering what the cynic would say. “Painting,” Grantaire lied, trying to keep his voice sounding normal. His eyes were still glued on Enjolras.

“Odd that you should be painting with ‘Our Last Summer’ as background music.”

Enjolras hurriedly hit the mute button. “I am not,” Grantaire protested.

“Whatever allows you to sleep at night,” Éponine replied. “Anyway, I called to tell you that you’re riding with Courf tomorrow.”

Grantaire nodded. “Awesome. Great. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Are you okay? You sound…uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine. I’m just tired. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Great. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning."

“Bye.”

Grantaire fell backwards, his head landing in Enjolras’ lap, and groaned. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with Courf.”

Before he could answer, Enjolras’ phone beeped.

He reached out and opened the message.

- _Hey, you’re with Courf tomorrow. R’s in the same car. Sorry. I know you two don’t always get on. – Ferre_  
- _It’s cool. Thanks. –E_

Grantaire cleared his throat, and nodded toward the cell phone.

“Combeferre. You and I are in the same boat. Well, rolling deathtrap, with Courf behind the wheel.”

There was an awkward silence, until Grantaire finally unmuted the film.

Despite the chords of “Gimme, Gimme, Gimme” cutting through the still, the tension remained. Grantaire could feel Enjolras’ eyes boring into him. Crap. Enjolras was probably regretting the almost kiss. Grantaire had to do something to ease the tension.

The artist leapt to his feet, swinging his hips in time to the music.

Enjolras raised a brow at Grantaire’s dance moves. He wolf whistled at the artist.

Grantaire flushed. “Stop.”

“Nope.” Enjolras hopped up, climbed atop the coffee table, chugged the rest of his beer, and swung his hips with more fervor than the artist. “Join me,” he cried.

“That table’s never gonna hold both of us. It’s barely holding you,” Grantaire chided, snapping a photo with his phone. “So, if you’d please get down before you break it.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Make me.”

Grantaire reached up, encircling Enjolras’ hips with his arms. He pulled the blonde off of the coffee table, in the hopes that the revolutionary would just drop to the ground. Instead, Enjolras put his full weight against Grantaire, sending them both careening onto the floor.

The blonde jumped to his feet, one on either side of Grantaire’s body, resuming his erratic dance.

“Apollo, are you supposed to be dancing? Because, at best, what you’re doing can be called rhythmic flailing. Stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Make me!”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, and jumped to his feet. He pulled Enjolras forward, till their bodies were aligned, and rolled his hips. Enjolras gasped, trembling slightly. Enjolras draped his long arms over Grantaire’s broad shoulders, as much to return the embrace as to keep from collapsing. He stared at the artist’s pink lips, which were slightly chapped. His hot breath only exacerbated the flush covering the revolutionary’s face. Enjolras swallowed hard.

Grantaire watched the blonde’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. Looking up, he saw that Enjolras’ blue eyes were nearly black.

The artist shifted uncomfortably under the revolutionary’s piercing stare. “Enjolras,” he managed hoarsely. “Wha-”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

Grantaire’s mind went in a million directions; the only coherent thought he could pick out was the first night they’d danced. “Someday,” he quoted.

Enjolras grinned at the allusion. “And what is this someday shit?”

“Well, I get the feeling that you…wait you haven’t…what are you…”

Enjolras had cupped the artist’s face.

Grantaire’s breath caught, and he leaned in slightly.

The moment was broken when Enjolras vainly tried to stifle a yawn. “I’m sorry.”

Grantaire smiled. “It’s fine. I should let you go.” He moved to let Enjolras go.

The blonde tightened his grip on the brunet. “What if I don’t feel like leaving?”

Grantaire’s eyebrows shot straight up, and his cheeks turned scarlet. “I guess…you can take the bed.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I am not kicking you out of your own bed. The only way that I’m sleeping in your bed is if you sleep there too.” Keeping one hand laced with Aire’s, Enjolras turned off the TV, and dragged the artist back toward the bedroom.

They stood awkwardly in the doorway for a minute. Grantaire finally broke away, flipping the light on, and moving to his dresser. He rooted around in a drawer for a minute, trying to find suitable pajamas for the both of them.

Enjolras, in the meantime, had happened upon the costume box.

Usually, a grown man having a box full of dress-up clothes might be considered creepy, but anyone who knew Grantaire knew that they had belonged to his mother, from her stint as an actress. Now the artist had repurposed them for art reference.

Enjolras knelt down, and opened the trunk.

The first thing he happened upon was a bright red, vintage fifties ball gown. Grinning like an idiot, he stripped down to his boxers, and then dragged the red dress over his body. He draped a black boa around his neck. “I’m so fabulous.” Enjolras turned back to the box, and pulled out a pink tulle skirt, and a white silk scarf.

“ **Friday night and the lights are low _,_** ” he sang, turning to face the artist. Grantaire spun on his heel, dropping the bundle of clothing.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Ignoring the question, Enjolras forced the skirt over Grantaire’s head, letting the elastic stretch over the artist’s chest. The blonde then tied the scarf around the brunet’s waist, continuing his off-key tribute to ABBA.

Grantaire looked down. Enjolras had deftly fashioned the ostentatious scarf and ballet attire into a pretty sexy cocktail dress, minus Aire’s jeans and shirt.

“I didn’t realize that you have a cross-dressing kink,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras grinned. “Cosette is my twin sister. When we went trick-or-treating we always did genderbent male and female duos.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Cosette is one of my best friends. How did I not know this?”

“Sibling confidentiality. My role as her brother will always trump your role as best friend.” Enjolras pulled out his cell phone. “Now, we need photographic evidence of my fashion sense. Smile.”

Grantaire begrudgingly smiled, and Enjolras craned his neck to press a kiss to the artist’s cheek.

Blushing, the artist asked, “Can I see it?”

Enjolras turned the phone so that they could check out their photos.

“Damn,” Grantaire swore, pulling off his makeshift dress. “Where were you when I needed a date to prom?”

“Protesting prom.”

Grantaire snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”

Enjolras blushed. “Am I the only one who feels ridiculously happy,” he asked after a moment.

The artist smiled. “No, I do, too. I don’t really know why, but I do.”

“I’m glad.” Enjolras threw his arms around Grantaire’s neck. The artist looped his arms around the blonde’s waist.

Enjolras never wanted this moment to end. He was perfectly content to have his face pressed to Grantaire’s chest, but there were more pressing matters at hand. “Aire, could you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

Enjolras swallowed. “Can you get me out of this dress? I can’t really breathe.”

Grantaire laughed. “Turn around.”

The blonde did an abrupt about-face, the red dress swirling around his ankles in a fabulous way that just wasn’t fair.

Swallowing, the brunet reached out, gripping the dress’ zipper with just the tip of his fingers in a vain attempt to limit his contact with Enjolras.

Finding it an impossible task, Grantaire grasped the top of the dress, and slowly pulled the zipper, shuddering as his knuckles grazed the blonde’s spine. Then, in a true show of masochism, Grantaire slowly slid the dress off of Enjolras’ shoulders, letting his fingers drag down the muscled arms.

Enjolras couldn’t move. If only Grantaire knew how his touch burned his skin.

Behind him, the artist cleared his throat. “The dress is off. Good news for your lungs.”

Enjolras couldn’t breathe, regardless. He turned to face Grantaire, trembling.

“Are you okay?”

The blonde abruptly nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, just…just needed to catch my breath.”

Grantaire raised a brow, and bent to retrieve the pajamas from the floor. “Here.”

Enjolras stared blankly at the bundle, until he finally shook himself out of his reverie, and took them. “Thanks.” He turned his back on the artist, and pulled the t-shirt over his head.

The dark-haired boy took the other’s example, turning his back to pull on a t-shirt and shorts. He immediately climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin, as if they would somehow protect him.

Enjolras slowly turned to face the bed. “Do you…do you want me to turn out the light?”

Grantaire nodded. “Go ahead.”

The blonde did as he was told, flipping the light out. The streetlamp outside gave just enough light for Enjolras to find his way to the edge of the bed without tripping. He crawled under the covers, taking care not to bump Grantaire.

The boys lay awkwardly side-by-side, staring at the ceiling, neither one really willing to admit that the bed wasn’t really built for two.

Finally, Grantaire sighed. “This is ridiculous. Come here."

Enjolras turned his head to face the artist, one brow raised. “What do you mean?”

Grantaire extended his arms towards the revolutionary. “Come here.”

“Ah.” The blonde rolled over, looping an arm over the brunet’s waist, and tucking his head under the other’s chin.

“Better?”

Enjolras grinned, snuggling in tighter. “Yeah. Much better. Goodnight, Aire.”

Grantaire pressed a kiss to the blonde curls. “Goodnight, Enjolras.”


	2. If the Van's A-Rockin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis meet up to leave on their slightly ambiguous road-trip. Enjolras is introduced to the shagging-wagon, and the rest of the Amis begin to notice the shift in the Enjoltaire dynamic. A.K.A. Enjolras tries his hand at flirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do you want some exposition? Some information through a song?" - Honest Trailers, Frozen, Do You Want to Build a Snowman  
> That is this chapter. Basically, it sets up the road trip, and is dorky, and introduces the rest of the Amis into the universe.

**_Previously:_ **

_Finally, Grantaire sighed. “This is ridiculous. Come here.”_

_Enjolras turned his head to face the artist, one brow raised. “What do you mean?”_

_Grantaire extended his arms towards the revolutionary. “Come here.”_

_"Ah.” The blonde rolled over, looping an arm over the brunet’s waist, and tucking his head under the other’s chin._

_“Better?”_

_Enjolras grinned, snuggling in tighter. “Yeah. Much better. Goodnight, Aire.”_

_Grantaire pressed a kiss to the blonde curls. “Goodnight, Enjolras.”_

* * *

Grantaire winced as his alarm clock blared. He reached out to smack it off.

Wait. He didn’t remember setting an alarm.

No, he remembered falling asleep….

Grantaire’s cheeks flushed as he recalled exactly how he’d fallen asleep.

He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. On his bedside table, next to his alarm clock, sat a still steaming cup of coffee and a note.

Aire took the cup of coffee in one hand, and the note in the other.

He sipped at the beverage, prepared just as he liked it, and read:

_Grantaire -_

_I set your alarm for six, which I’m assuming you figured out if you’re reading this. I left about a half hour ago. Hopefully the coffee is still hot. I would’ve stayed but I had to pack my things. I suggest you start packing. Courf texted me and said he wants to meet at the Musain around 7:30 and leave by 8. I’ll see you very soon._

_Enjolras x_

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at the little “x” by Enjolras’ name.

He picked up his phone and fired off a text.

_-Thanks for the coffee. –R_

His phone dinged less than ten seconds later. He opened the message.

_-Anytime. ☺ Do you want me to swing by in 30 and pick you up? –E_

_-If it’s not too much trouble? -R_

_-It’s never trouble. I’ll see you soon. Now get out of bed, and pack. ☺ -E_

* * *

 

Enjolras threw his suitcase in the trunk, and hopped in the driver’s seat.

He arrived at Grantaire’s apartment in twenty minutes. He ran up the steps and knocked on the door.

Grantaire answered the door, obviously having just pulled on his favorite green sweatshirt, from the way he was tugging at the hem. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, sorry. Oddly finding myself eager to go on this trip.”

Grantaire grinned, reaching forward to grab Enjolras’ hand. “C’mon in.”

“Thanks.”

Enjolras stood watching Grantaire frantically pack his bags, an affectionate smirk plastered to his face.

Grantaire zipped his duffel bag shut, and grabbed his knapsack, searching through it. He looked up, his eyes full of panic. “Enj, I can’t find my pencils.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, and picked the pencil case up from the table next to him. “These pencils, Aire?”

Grantaire darted forward and shoved the box of pencils in his knapsack. “Thanks.” He looked up, his nose an inch from Enjolras’. In his shock, he dropped the bag on the ground. His cheeks flushed. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You ready to risk your life in Courf’s deathtrap?”

“It won’t be so bad with you there,” Grantaire whispered. He steeled himself when Enjolras’ eyes snapped up to meet his.

Grantaire was not sure what he was expecting, but it definitely was not being pulled into Enjolras’ arms, clung to like he was the blonde’s life force. One arm clung tightly around Grantaire’s shoulders, the other sifted through his dark curls.

Grantaire slowly raised his arms, circling them around Enjolras’ waist.

After a moment, Enjolras pulled away slightly, slowly trailing his fingers down Grantaire’s arms, till their hands met. He laced their fingers together, smiling. The blonde stepped forward a bit, inclining his mouth towards the artist’s, just as his phone beeped.

Enjolras sighed, and rested his forehead on Grantaire’s. “That’ll be Courf,” he whispered.

Grantaire nodded. “We should probably go.”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras reluctantly pulled away and forced a smile onto his face. The revolutionary held out his hand for the artist, who gratefully took it. “C’mon. We’ll be late.”

Grantaire snorted. “For what? Death by Courfeyrac? We’re ten minutes ahead of schedule as it is.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes affectionately. “At least we’ll go down together.”

* * *

 

Grantaire was right; they were the first to arrive at the Musain, even though they detoured to Enjolras’ apartment to drop off his car, and then walked the rest of the way to the café.

“I’ll get us something to eat,” Enjolras said.

While Enjolras waited in line, his thoughts wandered.

Last night had been the first clear one in well over two months.

“Grantaire doesn’t want to overstep his bounds. He knows how I am about…that. And here I am teasing him, having effectively forbidden him from doing anything about it. He must think I’m messing with him.” He gasped. “What if he doesn’t know?”

An old lady in front of him turned around. Gesturing towards Grantaire, she whispered, “Honey, be blunt. Just go up to him and say those three words he wants to hear.”

Enjolras blushed, not realizing he’d spoken his musings aloud.

“I’m usually good with words, but I get tongue-tied around him.”

The woman smiled. “Be honest with him. If you love him, tell him so. The rest will fall into place with time.”

Enjolras nodded gratefully at the woman, however, he knew that it wouldn’t be that simple to say to Grantaire. If it were, he would’ve told the artist long ago.

“I am royally screwed,” Enjolras murmured.

* * *

 

Grantaire sat drumming his fingers. His mind was short-circuiting over the fact that he’d almost kissed Enjolras last night, and that he’d nearly done it again this morning. Grantaire couldn’t keep the dopey grin off of his face.

Of course, he was ever the cynic. “ _Perhaps I’m just reading into things too much. No wait, that’s stupid. An almost kiss still technically counts, and it’s hard to misread. I almost kissed Enjolras._ ”

Suddenly, Grantaire’s fingers stopped. No. Enjolras had almost kissed him.

Grantaire’s jaw dropped. “He almost kissed me.”  
“Don’t be so surprised,” a voice said. Grantaire looked up to see the old woman that had been speaking to Enjolras. The artist wasn’t aware he’d spoken aloud.

The old woman continued. “He’s trying to tell you how he feels. Perhaps you just need to listen more closely.” She tapped the side of her nose knowingly. “Read between the lines.”

Grantaire’s mind was racing as the woman tottered toward the exit.

* * *

 

The artist was broken out of his reverie by Enjolras dropping a bag of blueberry scones on the table in front of him. “You should eat something.”

Grantaire reached out and grabbed one of the pastries, munching on it for Enjolras’ benefit.

Enjolras sank into one of the cabaret chairs. Grantaire reached his arm out, ruffling the halo of blonde curls.

Just then, Éponine and Cosette walked in, followed by Marius and Feuilly. The girls strode over to Grantaire, each placing a kiss on his cheek.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my two favorite ladies in the world.”

Éponine snorted. “Who are you calling ladies?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes affectionately.

“Hey, Enjolras,” Marius gushed. “Aren’t you excited?”

The blonde nodded. “Yes. I think I am. Maybe. Ask me when I’ve had more than five hours of sleep.”

Cosette flashed a devious grin at Éponine. “What were you doing that kept you up so late?”

“Reading,” came Enjolras’ too quick reply.

“Don’t lie to me, big brother.” She punched his arm. “You’re an ass for not telling me. I will find out,” Cosette replied.

Feuilly clapped a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “What were you up to last night, Aire?”

The artist shrugged noncommittally.

Jehan appeared, followed by their roommate, Bahorel. “What kind of answer is that, Grantaire?”

“The only one I’m giving, Prouvaire.”

Bahorel grinned. “You just don’t want to tell us. That or you don’t remember. Did you take the green fairy out for another date?”

Grantaire answered by flipping Bahorel the bird, much to the amusement of Bahorel.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were the next to arrive.

“I’m telling you, my tongue’s the wrong shade! Grantaire! Would you please look at my tongue and tell ‘Suet and Chetta that it’s the wrong color!” The med student stuck his tongue out and drew close to the artist.

Grantaire shrank away. “Heard of personal space, Joly?”

“Look at my tongue!” The med student’s words were garbled, as his tongue still hung out of his mouth.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Grantaire made a show of looking at Joly’s tongue. “It’s fine! It looks just the same as every other tongue I’ve ever seen!”

Enjolras leaned down close to Grantaire’s ear. “Seen a lot of tongues, then?

Grantaire froze, turning only his eyes to look at Enjolras. The revolutionary was grinning like the Cheshire cat. The artist bit his lip, trying to keep himself in check.

Enjolras, seeing Grantaire’s discomfort, made a show of slowly licking his upper lip.

Grantaire bit down on his lip harder, till he broke through the skin, drawing blood. “Damn.” He ran his tongue over the place, trying to quell the bleeding.

Enjolras watched, rapt, as Grantaire’s tongue smeared with red. Grantaire’s tongue stopped over the wound, and he turned slightly to look Enjolras in the eye.

The revolutionary’s mind was so focused on the cynic that he didn’t notice that his two best friends and roommates, Courfeyrac and Combeferre, had appeared behind him.

Grantaire’s eyes flashed to the two men behind Enjolras, so he cleared his throat, looking down at the scone still in his hand.

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed in confusion, until Combeferre coughed. The revolutionary’s eyes went wide, and he spun around. “Hey, Courf. Hey, Ferre.”

“Hello, Enjolras,” Combeferre said calmly, tamping down on his suspicions.

Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes at Enjolras. “Fell asleep at the coffee shop my ass. You got laid last night, didn’t you?”

“No,” Enjolras grumbled, his cheeks flaring.

“Then why are you blushing?”

“I am not,” he burst out.

“Methinks he doth protest too much,” Cosette sang.

Courf grabbed Enjolras by the shoulders. “You’ve got to tell me everything.”

Sensing the blonde’s discomfort, Combeferre broke in, saying, “Hadn’t we better organize everyone, Courf?”

Courf nodded. “Don’t think you’re getting out of anything, Enjolras. You will tell me.”

“Oh, great,” the blonde mumbled.

“Okay, people,” Courfeyrac called out, climbing on one of the tables. “There are rules to a road trip! We have to take every opportunity to soak in the local flavor. That means no fast food chains, unless they’re something we don’t have at home. We must try new diners and stuff. The more Bates Motel looking the lodging, the better. We sleep in the cars at least one night, and tent at least two.”

Cosette joined Courfeyrac on the table. “Okay! Drivers,” she shouted. “Marius, Éponine, and Bahorel. You’re with me. The ménage à trois de l’ABC, you’re with Combeferre. Feuilly, Jehan, Enjolras, and Grantaire, you’re with Courfeyrac. Let’s get this show on the road!”

* * *

 

Cosette drove a glossy blue BMW. It was exactly the opposite kind of car you expected Cosette to drive looking at her. Once you got to know her, though, the sports car made perfect sense.

Marius hopped in the front seat with Cosette, and Bahorel jumped in the back.

Éponine stood in front of Combeferre. “So, I’ll see you at the first pit stop?”

The bespectacled man nodded shyly.

Éponine stood on her toes and quickly pecked Combeferre on the lips. His eyes went wide.

“I’ll see you, later.”

The philosopher nodded faintly.

Enjolras, having noticed the frankly adorable exchange, elbowed Grantaire, gesturing in the couple’s direction. Grantaire grinned. “I ship them so hard.”

Enjolras chuckled. “Me too.”

Ferre’s Camry could only be classified as a “mom-car.” It had the most basic package known to mankind, except for the satellite radio, which Courf had so graciously bestowed on Ferre last Christmas. Joly called shotgun, because he was certain he would develop eardrum damage if his ears were too close to the subwoofers. Bossuet and Musichetta clambered into the back seat.

Courf, on the other hand, rode in eclectic style. He had recently acquired a red VW microbus. Les Amis assumed that attendees of Woodstock must have owned it. The exterior had various messages of peace, love, and drugs painted on it. On the inside, according to Courf, was where the real fun was. Red shag lined the interior walls. Where the backseat had once been was red shag to match the rest of the car. The area was separated from the rest of the vehicle by a curtain of black beads.

Courf led Enjolras, Aire, Feuilly, and Jehan out to his baby. Ferre tagged along, just to check out the new car, though he kept throwing glances over his shoulders in the direction of a certain dark-haired beauty.

Enjolras wrinkled his nose as he climbed in the back. “It smells kind of funky in here.”

“It’s a shaggin wagon, Enj. What did you expect,” Feuilly retorted, climbing into the lone captain’s chair in the middle row.

“A shaggin wagon,” he asked, lying back in the thick carpet.

Courfeyrac nodded, grinning deviously. “Yes, a shaggin wagon.”

Enjolras sat bolt upright and threw an eyebrow skyward, now wary of the carpet upon which he sat. “Please tell me that I’m imagining the double meaning in that name.”

Grantaire, who sat cross-legged against the back of Feuilly’s captain’s chair, piped up. “If the van’s a-rocking, don’t come knocking.”

Enjolras squealed, launching himself into Aire’s lap.

Grantaire laughed, casually looping his arms around Enjolras, holding him steady. “C’mon, Apollo. It’s just the site of countless hippie shags.”

“Ew.” Enjolras buried his face in Grantaire’s neck trying to get the funky smell out of his nose.

Instead he filled his nose with the musky scent of Grantaire. Enjolras smiled at the hints of oil paint and tobacco behind the fresh soap smell.

Enjolras tensed, realizing that everyone else in the van was probably watching, but soon returned his nose to the hollow at the base of Aire’s throat, inhaling deeply, and smiling to himself. Illogical as it might have once seemed, the feeling of Grantaire holding him in his arms seemed perfectly natural to Enjolras. His eyes fluttered closed, and he squirmed, trying to get as close to Grantaire as possible. Aire seemed happy to oblige, pulling Enjolras closer to him.

Feuilly cleared his throat. Enjolras snapped his head up. Jehan’s eyes were wide. Courf grinned lecherously. Feuilly hid his expression behind a fan. Combeferre looked somewhere between smug and disapproving.

Enjolras felt his cheeks flush. He braved a glance at Grantaire’s face.

The dark haired boy’s cheeks were red, and his blue eyes were slightly blown out, leaving only a thin ring of azure around the pupils. His mouth hung slightly open, the right corner tugging upwards, threatening to split his face into a grin.

“I - uh - I...” Enjolras scrambled out of Grantaire’s lap, landing in the same spot that he’d jumped out of minutes before, his back to everyone.

Combeferre shook his head. “See you at our first pit stop, boys.” He slammed the door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed, leave kudos or a comment. Or both. Both is good. I hope you enjoyed. I'm posting this at midnight, so this note will seem a bit wonky. I promise the next chapter will be more exciting.


	3. The Artist Was Down to Awesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road trip begins, flashbacks occur, tattoos are discussed, progress is made, and suspicions aroused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is based on several head canons and Tumblr posts of mine. The title of this chapter is sort of an inside joke, as well. Triggers include mentions of alcoholism, suicide attempts, personal loss, and depression.  
> This chapter is dedicated to my spouse. I love you, mon chéri.  
> I don't own Les Mis.

**_Previously:_ **

_The dark haired boy’s cheeks were red, and his blue eyes were slightly blown out, leaving only a thin ring of azure around the pupils. His mouth hung slightly open, the right corner tugging upwards, threatening to split his face into a grin._

_“I - uh - I...” Enjolras scrambled out of Grantaire’s lap, landing in the same spot that he’d jumped out of minutes before, his back to everyone._

_Combeferre shook his head. “See you at our first pit stop, boys.” He slammed the door shut._

* * *

 

Grantaire chuckled. Enjolras’ cheeks still burned scarlet, even an hour later.

The artist pulled his paper and pencils out of his rucksack. The summer sun was turning the blonde’s hair into a halo just begging to be drawn.

He pushed his sleeves up his arms, his fingers lingering over the tattoos there; he smiled wistfully as he remembered the circumstances leading up to his ink.

* * *

 

_Grantaire attended his first meeting in his junior year of college. He’d been begged by a lovesick Bossuet to go as his wingman._

_The clumsy man had explained that it was this social-justice meeting, led by that obnoxious freshman, Enjolras._

_“You know Enjolras, right, Aire?”_

_“I know the name. Who doesn’t? He’s only a semester in and he’s been almost thrown out twice.”_

_“So you’re coming then?”_

_Grantaire sighed; losing his family had sunk the art student into a deep depression. His grades had slipped, he’d abandoned his many extracurricular activities, and he’d begun drinking. Still, he was curious about the freshman that had the whole campus talking._

_“Sure. What are friends for?”_

_Bossuet grinned. “Thanks, mate! I owe you!”_

_“Yes, you do. Come on. You have a boyfriend to get, and I have an obnoxious freshman to laugh at.”_

_Little did Grantaire know he’d find friends in Les Amis de l’ABC, and that he would fall hard for their obnoxious freshman leader._

* * *

_Come senior year, Grantaire had become good friends with all of the Amis._

_Enjolras, obviously, for all his cruelty and vitriol, had stolen the cynic’s heart. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were great drinking buddies. Jehan fostered his love of dance. Courfeyrac, his love of singing. Marius and Combeferre appreciated Grantaire’s knowledge of the classics. In Feuilly he found a fellow artist, in Bahorel a fellow athlete._

_Surprisingly, however, it was the chief’s twin sister and their former foster sister who turned out to be his closest friends._

_In Éponine, he found someone to hold him when he fell into darkness. In Cosette, he found someone to pull him out of the darkness._

_Naturally, of course, he’d asked the girls to join him for his first tattoo._

_From there on out, it was just assumed that they were coming with him when he got a new one._

_Two years later, Grantaire was nearly covered in ink, and the girls were the only people who had seen every single one._

_The other Amis knew they were there; occasionally, he rolled his sleeves to his elbows, revealing the tattoos on his forearms._

_Once, he’d worn a tank top underneath a button down, revealing the tattoo on his chest, which had launched an argument over the value of irony over philosophy between himself and Enjolras._

_The rest of his tattoos remained a mystery to them, which was just the way Grantaire liked it._

* * *

 

Enjolras dragged his hands down his face. They had been on the road for about an hour now, and Enjolras had said nary a word to anyone since climbing out of Grantaire’s lap.

He glanced over his shoulder to where Grantaire was now sketching furiously.

The blonde had always been intrigued by Taire’s drawings, even before the incident. Enjolras was completely fascinated by the way his friend’s hands moved when sketching, and the way that Grantaire could make a two-dimensional image come to life.

Today, Enjolras’ eyes focused on the art covering the artist’s arms.

No matter the weather, Taire always wore long sleeves and jeans. Today, he had his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the most well known of the tattoos.

Enjolras thought with a grin about the first time Les Amis had ever seen the art in full, approximately five months ago.

* * *

 

_They weren’t exactly celebrating Fat Tuesday; rather, they were using the religious occasion as an excuse to eat rich food, and get completely plastered._

_So when a giddy Courfeyrac suggested a game of strip poker, the fairly tipsy Amis immediately agreed._

* * *

 

_Enjolras was beginning to believe that Courfeyrac had stacked the deck. There was no possible way that Grantaire had gotten that many terrible hands in a row. That or Bossuet had shared some of his horribly bad luck._

_The artist had cleverly avoided truly stripping, however, by counting every single component of clothing he could think of; he’d removed his shoelaces, one shoe at a time, one sock at a time, the drawstring from his ratty sweatshirt, the sweatshirt, and the leather cuff around his wrist. Despite the awful hands, he remained the most clothed Ami. Unfortunately for the artist, what good luck he might have left ran dry; he had an incredibly low hand, and the Amis had a house rule that the person with the worst hand had to strip off two items._

_The artist was scrounging for a way to avoid removing his shirt or pants, but, alas, no such way existed. Sighing, Grantaire stood, shucked his jeans, and yanked his shirt off. “There. You happy?”_

_Les Amis stared._

_“What? You never seen a guy with tats before?”_

_Courfeyrac was the first to speak. “Aire, they’re glorious!”_

_In a flash the rest of the group, save Éponine and Cosette, were crowded around him, in astonishment. They’d seen the art below his elbows, and a glimpse of one on his chest, but beyond that, they knew nothing of his ink._

_They’d once discussed it at a meeting the cynic had called in sick for. Nobody believed that Grantaire actually had that many tattoos, despite the aura of mystery he kept about them._

_Now that the artist was stripped, the Amis realized that Grantaire hadn’t been lying; he was covered in tattoos. The only bit of completely bare flesh was the left side of his torso and his left forearm._

_Enjolras, at this point, was still a little unsure concerning his feelings for the artist, but there was no denying that those tattoos were doing a number on him._

_He leaned into his sister and asked weakly, “Has he always had so many?”_

_“Yes. He’s been tatted up since he came out of the womb.” Cosette’s words earned a glare from her brother. “No, silly. He got his first senior year, and he’s never stopped.”_

_“How do you know?”_

_Cosette rolled her eyes. “Because I’ve been there for every one. Duh.”_

_Enjolras’ eyes widened. He knew that Grantaire had a soft spot for Cosette, but he didn’t realize they were that close._

_“Why didn’t you tell me?”_

_“Why would you want to know about the amount of ink covering Grantaire’s body?”_

_Enjolras opened his mouth to answer, but realizing he had no reason, he excused himself to the corner, where he sat red-faced the rest of the night._

* * *

The blonde felt a bit foolish. Despite the fact that he was absolutely transfixed by the artist’s tattoos, he hadn’t the foggiest idea what any of them were. For the amount of time the two had spent in each other’s company, he should have taken better notice the artwork littering Grantaire’s skin.

Enjolras tried to discern the patterns, but he was at a terrible angle over his shoulder, and he did not want to interrupt the artist at work.

Luckily for him, Enjolras did not have to wait long. Aire gave a satisfied sigh, and put his pencil down. Grantaire looked up and grinned at Enjolras. “Hey, Apollo.”

Enjolras swallowed hard, and turned to face Aire. “I…” He didn’t know how to continue.

Grantaire cocked an eyebrow at him. “Yes?”

Instead of trying to fumble with his words, Enjolras crawled closer to Grantaire. He took the dark-haired boy’s hands in his, inspecting the ink.

Grantaire shyly bit his lip, averting his eyes from Enjolras’ gaze. He shivered as Enjolras pushed his right sleeve up slightly, tracing the designs down his arm.

Finally, Enjolras’ eyes met Grantaire’s. “Tell me.”

Grantaire opened his mouth, but only a feeble croak issued forth. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me about your tattoos.”

Grantaire’s cheeks flushed red. “What do you want to know?”

“What they are. Why you got them.”

“Hmm.” Grantaire searched his forearms. “Here,” he said, pointing to one on his forearm. “The Narnian lamppost. My grandmother read all the books to my sister and me. She died when I was seventeen. It was my first one; I got it in her honor.” He paused, and pointed to the arrow looping around his index finger. “This one was based on a poem Jehan wrote for me. It was something about your path not always being straight, but always pressing forwards.”

Grantaire slowly traced his fingers along the swirling blue lines curling around his arm. “This one, I don’t know. I just woke up one morning, and there was a bunch of blue on my arm.”

“And this one?” Enjolras swept his thumb over a semicolon on the artist’s left wrist. It looked fairly new in comparison to the others; it hadn’t faded, and the edges were still crisp and clear. It hadn’t had time to sink into his skin yet.

Tears formed in Grantaire’s eyes, and he looked down in shame. “I like semicolons,” he lied.

Enjolras caught Grantaire’s gaze. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Grantaire.”

He swallowed. “No, I just -” He stopped and pulled out his phone with his free hand. He flashed the backlight over his wrist.

What the backlight revealed was like a punch in the gut to Enjolras. Each red, pink, and white line etched itself on Enjolras’ heart.

Grantaire closed his eyes, clearing his throat. “The semicolon comes in the middle of a sentence, just like I’m in the middle of life. It’s a reminder that my life, the proverbial sentence, doesn’t end. I got it after I was released.”

There were so many things Enjolras wanted to say, but he just couldn’t get them past his tied tongue. “Aire, I- I… Do you...I think…”

At a loss for words, Enjolras lifted Grantaire’s wrist, and gently pressed his mouth to the scars.

Grantaire’s eyes fluttered open, the pupils of his eyes impossibly blown out. “Enjo -”

He pressed a finger to Grantaire’s lips, then moved his hand to cup his cheek, and leaned in.

Just then, Courfeyrac decided to slam on the brakes, pitching Grantaire backwards to land on the floor next to Feuilly’s chair, and Enjolras forward to land on Grantaire.

“Pit stop,” Courf sang. He turned in his chair, and his eyes widened at the sight before him. “Um, Enj. Aire. I know that technically this is a shaggin’ wagon, and personally, I don’t care if you two want to utilize that aspect of my van, but could you wait until the rest of us aren’t in the car?”

Both Enjolras and Grantaire flushed a deep shade of burgundy, and Enjolras scrambled to get off of Grantaire.

Both boys sat up on their haunches, and stared back at each other. They didn’t realize how long they’d been staring at each other until they heard all three car doors slam. Enjolras jumped, and Grantaire put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “C’mon. You look like you could use a slushie.”

He held out his hand, and Enjolras tentatively took it. They walked to the gas station in that fashion. Because everybody was already at the register paying, the two could slip past straight to the slushie machine. Grantaire fixed two cherry slushies, and walked to the register. Everyone else was already back at the cars, or very nearly there. Grantaire paid, and handed one of the slushies to Enjolras with a half-grin.

 

* * *

 

Ferre and Courf leaned close to observe the pair through the stickers adorning the gas station’s windows.

“And you said they were on top of each other,” Ferre asks.

Courf nodded. “Feuilly told me they were talking about Aire’s tattoos. And then he says they got really quiet.”

Ferre raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you paying attention?”

Courf shook his head. “I was too busy trying to follow Miss Cosette Andretti. I didn’t think to check on them!”

“I just don’t want to see them get hurt,” Combeferre murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s something you don’t know. If I’m right, then this may be a good thing. If I’m wrong, this will end badly, and all hell will break loose. It’ll eviscerate Grantaire, and likely pull the Amis apart at the seams. If that were to happen, Enjolras would hate Grantaire irrevocably.”

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the door’s bell ringing, signaling that Enjolras and Grantaire were leaving. “Fly, Ferre!”

Courf squeezed his friend’s hand, and then the two made a mad dash for their respective vehicles.

Grantaire held the door for Enjolras, gently sliding his hand into Enj’s, and they returned to the van.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope you enjoyed this chapter. The various posts can be found here.  
> The tattoos: http://thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com/post/110828040289/right-i-ran-out-of-room-again  
> The strip-poker: http://thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com/post/110920550269/eponine-and-cosette-are-rs-best-girl-friends-and  
> Grantaire's past: http://thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com/post/110101970359/i-needed-more-room-than-the-allotted-ask  
> Chapter Title: http://thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com/post/113274775879/a-screenshot-of-an-unfinished-sentence-from-the  
> If you liked this chapter, leave a comment and/or a kudos.  
> You can check out my Tumblr at: thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com


	4. If We All Light Up We Can Scare Away the Ducks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road trip continues. Songs are sung, dances are danced, and ducks are scared away. Combeferre ignores his worries in favor of his girlfriend, Courfeyrac ignores his date mate in favor of worrying, and Enjolras and Grantaire continue to be cute as heck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of a filler chapter, but still cute. We get a bit of Épiferre, and obviously some more Enjoltaire. Also we get some of Marius being a dork. And dancing and singing. The chapter title is based on the song "Scare Away the Dark" by Passenger, which is only relevant because of one line referring to the adorably dorky Pontmercy. George Blagden would be proud of this chapter. Maybe.

**_Previously:_ **

_“I just don’t want to see them get hurt,” Combeferre murmured._

_“What do you mean?”_

_“There’s something you don’t know. If I’m right, then this may be a good thing. If I’m wrong, this will end badly, and all hell will break loose. It’ll eviscerate Grantaire, and likely pull the Amis apart at the seams. If that were to happen, Enjolras would hate Grantaire irrevocably.”_

_Courfeyrac opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the door’s bell ringing, signaling that Enjolras and Grantaire were leaving. “Fly, Ferre!”_

_Courf squeezed his friend’s hand, and then the two made a mad dash for their respective vehicles._

_Grantaire held the door for Enjolras, gently sliding his hand into Enj’s, and they returned to the van._

* * *

 

A year ago, Enjolras would have scoffed at the present scenario.

It would make no sense for him to be sitting in between Grantaire’s legs, the artist’s fingers gently carding through his blonde curls, the indie rock tunes of Jehan’s music wafting through the air. It would make no sense for his fists to be clenched so tightly his nails were bruising his palms; they curled a little tighter every time Grantaire’s fingers brushed his scalp.

However, at present, it seemed a perfectly logical scenario.

Grantaire gently put the completed braid over Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras looked down at his hair and grinned. “It’s lovely, thank you.” Enjolras turned slightly in Grantaire’s lap so that he could press his nose into the artist’s throat.

The dark-haired boy made a happy sound that sent a tremor throughout Enjolras’ body.

“Ooh, it’s my turn for music! Hey, Aire,” Courf called from the driver’s seat. “Did you bring your guitar?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, and gently pushed Enjolras off his lap, so that he could turn and face Courfeyrac. “Yeah, I did. Why?”

Courf snickered. “Because either you give us a live acoustic performance, or we listen to Nicki Minaj. And my anaconda don’t…”

“No,” Grantaire exclaimed. “Don’t you dare go any further.”

“Wait, what anaconda,” Enjolras asked innocently.

Jehan scoffed. “Enj, I swear to Patria you live under a rock. Courf, enlighten Enjolras, please.”

Grantaire dropped his face into his hands as the opening lines of “Anaconda” blared through Courf’s speakers. Enjolras’ eyes widened. “What the hell?”

Grantaire looked up apologetically.

“This is the worst song I have ever had the misfortune of hearing,” Enjolras exclaimed.

“Unless Aire plays, it’s going to be non-stop Minaj, “ Courf replied.

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” Grantaire spat. “Apollo, would you mind?”

Enjolras reached out and pulled the guitar case towards Grantaire.

Aire unclasped the latches on the case, and pulled out his guitar. He quietly tuned the strings by ear, and then strummed a chord.

“What do you want me to play,” Grantaire asked begrudgingly.

Courf paused. “Anything not mainstream.”

Grantaire considered this, and strummed out a few chords.

“ _Love of mine, one day you will die, but I’ll be close behind. I’ll follow you into the dark,_ ” Grantaire softly sang.

Enjolras was surprised he actually knew this song. Enjolras was also surprised by the gentleness of Grantaire’s sweet, lilting baritone. The only time he’d heard Grantaire sing was during their movie nights, and he really only belted, purposely out of tune.

“ _No blinding light, or tunnels to gates of white, just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark.”_

Grantaire was stunned to hear Enjolras’ tenor join him. “ _If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied, illuminate the no’s on their vacancy signs. If there’s no one beside you when your soul embarks, I will follow you into the dark.”_

He looked up and grinned at Enjolras.

Grantaire was just about to continue when Courfeyrac yelled, “Damn!”

“What did you forget,” Feuilly asked exasperatedly.

“The air conditioner just broke,” Courf cried. “Alright, everyone get prepared to bake.”

“Damn,” Grantaire muttered. “On the list of things not good for my guitar, number one is humidity.”

Jehan reached over and cranked the lever on the doors. “We’ll use two fifty-five air conditioning.”

“What’s that,” Feuilly wanted to know.

“We roll down the front two windows and go fifty-five miles per hour.”

 

* * *

 

Within ten minutes, all five of the passengers in the microbus were devoid of at least one article of clothing, unable to bear the heat. Courf, with some assistance from Jehan, had managed to get his t-shirt off, while still maintaining control of the vehicle. Jehan had stripped off their shoes and socks, as well as the blouse they’d been wearing. Feuilly, despite the added advantage of several handmade fans, stripped down to his boxers, much to the dismay of everyone in the car.

Enjolras peeled off his shoes, socks, and t-shirt, revealing his bare chest. He wasn’t unaware of the fact that Grantaire, who had taken up his sketchpad once again, had momentarily paused and was watching him through his dark eyelashes.

Grantaire, when all was said and done, had retained most of his clothing. He’d removed his green sweatshirt, but kept his black tank, tantalizingly revealing his lean, muscled arms, and more of his tattoos.

This time, Enjolras didn’t try to hide his inspection of the art. Grantaire scooted closer to him, so that the blonde could have a better look.

Enjolras immediately recognized the eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg on Aire’s right deltoid.

“My father’s favorite book.” Grantaire supplied. “He gave his copy to me just before…” Grantaire didn’t have to finish. Not wanting a repeat flood of emotions from the semicolon, Enjolras nodded and moved to Grantaire’s left arm.

A tea rose stood out on his left deltoid, the thorny, green stem wrapping around his upper arm. “Maddie,” Grantaire choked out.

Enjolras didn’t need Grantaire to explain this tattoo further. Grantaire’s sister, Madeline, had been rendered brain dead in the car crash, and Grantaire was the one who had had to make the decision to take her off of life support. “It’s a beautiful tribute, Aire.”

A smile faintly ghosted on Grantaire’s face. He swept his dark curls off the back of his neck, and turned his back to Enjolras.

Enjolras had to squint to decipher the tattoo. It fit in the span of a circle four inches in diameter, blue on one side, orange on the other. Upon further inspection, Enjolras realized it was the form of an orange woman, embracing a blue man. “Aire, help me out here.”

“Everyone said my mum and I were like day and night,” he replied, his voice barely over a whisper.

Enjolras realized it was a heavily stylized sun and moon symbol. “Aire…”

Grantaire turned towards Enjolras, and promptly fell into his arms. It took one beat for Enjolras to realize that the tremors shaking Grantaire’s body were silent sobs.

“Shh,” Enjolras whispered, so that only Grantaire could hear. “It’s alright.”

“I miss them so much. They left me all alone.”

Enjolras’ heart shattered for the broken man in his arms. “You are not alone. You have the Amis. Les Amis are your family. And...and you have me. You know that. I won’t leave you.” He hesitantly pressed a kiss into Grantaire’s mop of dark curls.

Grantaire froze. In his despair, he’d curled into Enjolras’ bare chest. The kiss pressed against his hair had brought him back to reality. Now he was glaringly aware of the closeness of his lips to Enjolras’ collarbone. He debated returning the favor.

Just as he was about to plant a kiss on the hollow at the base of Enjolras’ throat, the speakers began to blare at full volume. The two jumped apart, clamping their hands over their ears. “Turn that down,” Enjolras shouted.

“Sorry,” Courf replied, as Jehan cranked the knob, “accidentally messed with the volume when I meant to change the station.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. It wasn’t completely fair to blame Courfeyrac; Enjolras and Grantaire weren’t the only people in the vehicle.

Just then, “I Will Always Love You” started. Feuilly started crooning along, very off-key. Jehan grinned, and sang back to him.

Enjolras cringed. “You two do a great injustice to Miss Houston.”

Jehan glowered at the blonde in the back. “Do you think you can do better?”

“No,” Enjolras replied, “but that is why I am refraining from singing.”

Grantaire smiled at Enjolras’ wry remark. “Hey, Courf, are we stopping soon? I don’t want to be here when these three have a smack down sing-off.”

Courf chuckled. “Actually, we’re stopping for lunch now.”

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

Les Amis stopped at a little bar and grill just after six. Despite the dance floor and bar, it really was more of a diner. Luckily for them, they were the only people there. Each car group squeezed into a booth of their own.

“Sweet,” Marius exclaimed. “Jukeboxes!”

Each booth featured a small jukebox. Cosette grinned like the devil, putting in the correct change, and punching a few buttons. “Hey, Grantaire!”

The opening lines of “Dark Horse” played through the tinny speakers.

“No, Cosette,” he replied, grinning despite himself. “Not here.”

She pouted and batted her eyelashes. “I’ll do it with you. Please!”

“No.”

Cosette raised an eyebrow. “You don’t, and I’ll tell everyone what you said that night you spent black-out drunk on my couch.”

Grantaire’s eyes went wide, and he jumped up. “You’re in this with me.”

“Of course.”

They stood side by side on the dance floor. Cosette nodded, mouthing, “Five, six, seven, eight.”

The two began a hip-hop routine that looked fairly well rehearsed. In fact, both Cosette and Grantaire seemed completely comfortable with each other.

Neither Enjolras nor Marius were comfortable with that fact. Both men crossed their arms in jealousy when Cosette stood with her back to Grantaire, and the dancing duo performed body rolls completely in synch with the other.

When the song ended, les Amis, with the exception of Marius and Enjolras burst into applause. Cosette turned around and threw her arms around Aire’s neck, kissing him on the cheek. “We are so going to nationals this year.”

Enjolras couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “What was that? What do you mean nationals?”

Grantaire blushed. “Cosette and I have been part of the same dance studio since her freshman year of college, and dance partners since her junior year.”

“And you never thought to tell me,” Marius shouted.

Cosette rolled her eyes. “I knew you’d react like this. We’re partners primarily because we’re friends. The other nice thing is that we are nearly the same height when I’m in heels, so it makes things like swing easier.”

“How many dance styles do you know,” Musichetta asked.

Cosette counted off on her fingers, “Ballet, swing, jazz, ballroom, hip-hop, tap, breakdance, modern, freestyle…” She looked to Grantaire to see if she’d missed any.

“We took a class each on hula and Irish step,” he mumbled.

“You forgot the day that pole dancer came and gave a demonstration,” Cosette reminded him playfully.

Grantaire grinned mischievously. “Oh yes. I remember.”

“Pole dancing,” Marius asked warily.

Before Grantaire or Cosette could defend themselves, the waitress reappeared with their meals.

Grantaire slid back in next to Enjolras, who was staring at him incredulously.

“What? I know pole dancing. So what?”

“No. You can dance. Like you’re actually trained. And you’re really good. That was incredible.”

Grantaire’s cheeks flushed. “Thanks. We’ve been practicing that routine for ages.”

“Can you teach me that sometime?”

Grantaire shyly nodded.

Enjolras paused, before asking, “Cosette is a killer pole-dancer, isn’t she?”

“That pole melted into a puddle on the floor, and I suffered from an acute case of tachycardia,” Grantaire deadpanned.

Enjolras couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing. “You know, I don’t think Pontmercy knows what he’s gotten himself into.”

 

* * *

 

Combeferre watched the pair, his mind racing.

Initially, when Enjolras had revealed that he was seeing someone, Combeferre suspected Grantaire. Still, Combeferre knew the pair’s history, and somehow it seemed unlikely, no matter how much everyone wanted the two together.

The two didn’t even act like a couple.

Combeferre had no doubts that if the two were actually dating, that they would be the most awkward couple to grace the planet; Grantaire showed his love through cynical humor, and Enjolras was never good at showing affection. In that sense, they did resemble their version of a couple. However, it was in the eyes where the love was lacking.

Grantaire’s gaze was somewhere between happily bewildered and the usual worshipfully devoted.

Enjolras’ was a cross between confused and possessive.

Whatever was going on, Combeferre didn’t think it looked healthy.

The intellectual was broken out of his thoughts when a pair of lips pressed against the shell of his ear. He jumped, turning to face Éponine. “What are you thinking, nerd?”

Combeferre forced a smile onto his lips. “Moths. And You. A moth version of you.”

Éponine raised an eyebrow. “A moth version of me? You are such a weirdo.”

“Yes, but I’m your weirdo.”

She grinned. “You are that.” Pulling him to his feet, she continued, “Come on. There’s an antique shop I saw on the way in, and I’ve been just dying to check it out. Cameras for me and books for you.”

Combeferre smiled genuinely now. “Sounds wonderful.” And it did. Éponine, despite her tough exterior, was incredibly sweet; Ferre counted himself the luckiest man in the world for gaining her love, and didn’t forget it for a moment. Enjolras and Grantaire would just have to wait.

 

* * *

 

Once inside the shop, Combeferre picked up the thickest text on the shelf. He hadn’t the foggiest what it was, nor did he read a word of it. He was too busy watching Éponine peruse the cameras.

She had hit it off with the old man who owned the shop; he could tell from her questions that she knew her way around a camera, and was eager to deliver these relics into loving hands who would put them back into use.

Having made her decision, she strode proudly over to Combeferre with her purchase.

He didn’t pretend to understand her explanations of the specs of the camera, but nodded in support of her quirky passion.

When she finished her speech, Combeferre merely reached out to caress her face.

She smiled brilliantly, before standing on her toes to peck his lips again.

 

* * *

 

Once Combeferre and Éponine had left the restaurant, it was not long before the rest of the group followed suit.

They wandered a bit aimlessly, stopping at a drugstore, and then happened upon a park.

The park was quite impressive. Next to a babbling creek full of ducks were giant rocks to climb. Next to that was a picnic pavilion and basketball court, and adjacent to that were several skateboard ramps. The playground proper followed, divided into areas for younger and older children. Then came the waterpark.

Cosette, like the Disney princess she was, successfully fed two loaves of bread procured at the drugstore to the ducks.

Courfeyrac climbed the trees, hanging from them like an acrobat.

Jehan sat underneath the tree, writing Courf love poems.

Marius succeeded in scaring the ducks away.

Bossuet and Musichetta climbed to the top of one of the rocks, while Joly stood at the bottom, warning them of the germs the porous surface would hold.

Bahorel and Feuilly joined a bunch of high school kids in a game of basketball.

Enjolras stood watching his sister feed the ducks, when suddenly a hand clamped over his mouth.

“Shh. Come with me.”

He followed Grantaire toward a large red structure on the playground.

Enjolras looked up at the contraption curiously. It was a metal, spherical structure, with ropes twining around a base at the center.

Grantaire swung under one of the metal poles, toward the rubber platform in the center. “Come on,” he called.

Enjolras tentatively trailed behind.

There was no comfortable way for two mostly grown men to sit on the rubber base, so Enjolras perched in the surrounding ropes, his legs slung across Grantaire’s lap.

“Hi,” Grantaire said finally.

Enjolras bit his lip. “Hi.”

The artist said no more. Instead, he laid his head on the blonde’s knees, his fingers tracing the swell of Enjolras’ ankle.

Enjolras, for his part, looped his finger through a dark curl, gently turning it over and over.

Neither looked the other in the eye, but the smiles ghosting on their faces unquestionably belonged to the other.

 

* * *

 

Courfeyrac hung upside down from a tree limb, peering at the two. He couldn’t see them very clearly, but he could see that they were indeed very close. Touching, in fact.

What in the hell could have Ferre been talking about? Courf could not conceive a scenario in which Enjolras and Grantaire acting like actual friends would end badly.

He dropped to the ground, next to Prouvaire.

Nudging the poet, he gestured to the pair. “Jehan, do you see what I see?”

The ginger smirked, nodding. “We all see it, peach. You’re only worried because Ferre is.”

Courf raised a brow. “I swear, sometimes I think you’re psychic.”

Jehan didn’t answer, merely tapping the side of their nose.

“What do you think?”

Prouvaire finally looked up from their notebook. “Sweetheart, I think that whatever it is, they obviously don’t need our help. Don’t worry your head, and tell Combeferre to keep his nose out of it.”

Courfeyrac nodded. “You’re right, of course."

Leaning over to kiss Courf’s forehead, the poet murmured, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Did you enjoy this chapter? If so, leave a comment or a kudos! You can find me on Tumblr at: thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com


	5. That Sounds Like a Breakfast Cereal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some believe that twins, identical or not, share a telepathic link. No one believes this more truly than Cosette. So, when the Amis begin to suspect a relationship between their leader and the resident cynic, she's willing to wager against Combeferre's massive intellect and deductive skills. Unfortunately for Combeferre, he has no idea what he's going up against; Cosette, with the assistance of Éponine, has quite a few tricks up her sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter of fighting, fluff, fangirling, and film. As per usual, kind of silly, but ultimately meant to put a goofy grin on all your faces! Trigger warning: Mentions of alcohol and suicide attempts.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Les Mis. I don't own Titanic, either.

_“What do you think?”_

_Prouvaire finally looked up from their notebook. “Sweetheart, I think that whatever it is, they obviously don’t need our help. Don’t worry your head, and tell Combeferre to keep his nose out of it.”_

_Courfeyrac nodded. “You’re right, of course."_

_Leaning over to kiss Courf’s forehead, the poet murmured, “I know.”_

* * *

 

Cosette didn’t know whether to pout or to smile.

By now, Grantaire and Enjolras had retreated from the jungle gym. They were lying on a grassy knoll watching the clouds.

Well, Grantaire was watching them.

Her brother’s head was turned to face the artist. His expression was foreign to his features, but Cosette recognized it nonetheless.

It was the way that she sometimes caught herself looking at Marius.

Beyond her brother’s apparent feelings for the artist, Cosette wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. She wasn’t sure she liked that; if her twin brother and best friend were in some sort of relationship, she should’ve been the first to know.

She turned away just in time to see Éponine and Combeferre meander into the park. Cosette bounded up to the other girl, just about to voice her musings, when Combeferre suddenly let out an ear-piercing whistle. “We’re going to head to the hotel now.”

Cosette sighed; her brother’s love life would have to wait.

* * *

 

Grantaire yawned. It’d been a full day. He couldn’t wait until les Amis arrived at the hotel. Enjolras was already sprawled on his back on the floor of the microbus. He was asleep, as far as Aire could tell.

They’d been stuck in rush hour traffic; a trip that should have taken ten minutes at the most was crawling up on the half hour mark.

He’d tried to stay awake, but the length of each blink was growing rapidly.

“I give up.” Grantaire gingerly lay down on the floor. Suddenly, Enjolras whimpered in his sleep. The artist was now very much awake, his gaze boring into the roof of the van. He tried not to think about the warm body six inches away. The hand that was just within his reach.

He couldn’t help himself; he slid his hand over until his hand just brushed Enjolras’.

Grantaire froze when Enjolras’ hand turned over, lacing their fingers together.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his lips were met with Enjolras’ finger. “Don’t,” he whispered.

Enjolras rolled over, nestling his head on Grantaire’s chest, wrapping an arm around his waist, and lazily crossing one of his ankles over Aire’s.

He vainly tried to slow down his breathing and heartbeat, since he was acutely aware of the fact that Enjolras could hear it.

The blonde grinned and whispered, “Goodnight.”

 

* * *

 

“Should we wake them,” Courfeyrac asked Combeferre.

Ferre absentmindedly wiped his glasses. “If you crack a window, they shouldn’t suffocate.”

Courf bit his lip. “I don’t know what to make of them. When did they become friends? Two months ago Grantaire was lucky if Enjolras would even look at him. Now they’re sleeping, wrapped up in each other’s arms.”

“I can see that.”

Just that second, Enjolras tipped his head up. Courf and Ferre froze. Enj, eyes still closed, kissed the underside of Aire’s jaw. The artist tightened his grip on Enjolras.

Ferre and Courf ran a few feet away and pretended to be in a deep discussion, while watching Grantaire and Enjolras in their peripherals.

Grantaire sat up and stretched, smiling down at Enjolras, who was still clinging to his shirt. He whispered something into the blonde’s ear, to which Enjolras smiled and nodded.

Grantaire took his duffel in one hand and Enjolras’ in the other. He hopped out of the back of the van, and stood with his back to the tailgate. Enjolras clambered onto Grantaire’s back, looping his legs around Aire’s waist, and his arms around the artist’s neck.

Grantaire momentarily turned to shut the hatch, then strode in the direction of Courf and Ferre.

They looked incredulously at the pair. Grantaire smiled, and said, “Someone didn’t feel like walking.”

Ferre and Courf nodded.

The four headed toward concierge.

 

* * *

 

It ended that everyone was paired off for rooms: Cosette with Marius, Éponine with Combeferre, Joly and Bossuet with Musichetta, Courfeyrac with Jehan, Feuilly with Bahorel, and Enjolras with Grantaire.

After procuring the room keys from Combeferre, Aire took Enjolras straight to their room, since the dead weight of his sleeping body was becoming harder to keep a tight grip on.

The rest of les Amis stared at the pair, and then crowded in the lobby.

Éponine spoke first. “Cosette, when did you plan on telling me that your brother is screwing our best friend?”

Cosette rounded on the other girl. “When did you plan on telling me that our best friend is screwing my brother?”

The girls rounded on Courf and Ferre. “When did you plan on telling us that Grantaire is screwing Enjolras,” they asked in unison.

Courf fumbled around his words, and Ferre looked guiltily at the floor.

“You must know,” Éponine continued. “You’re Enjolras’ best friends and roommates. He can’t hide your Christmas presents for more than a day; there’s no way he hid a relationship.”

Combeferre spoke quietly. “He didn’t.”

Éponine was furious. “And you didn’t think to tell us? Grantaire is our best friend. Enjolras is her brother.”

The bespectacled man gaze was cold. “I didn’t tell you because I don’t know everything.”

Cosette answered sharply. “Then tell us what you do know.”

He took a deep breath. “It’s not good. Okay, two weeks after school let out, Enjolras told me he was seeing someone. He said something about how they could have been together for a while now, and the room smelled like wine and oil paint. I thought it might be Grantaire, but after the last fight they had, I ruled it out.”

“You ruled it out because they fight,” Courf asked. “Cosette and Enjolras’ dads fight all the time, and they’re quite happy together.”

“Well, I figured that if he were dating Grantaire, he’d tell us.”

Éponine rolled her eyes. “And that’s your reasoning?”

“No. It’s the way they act. Like, Enjolras is trying to hide the relationship or something. And I don’t know if it’s because of the fragility of their friendship, or because Enjolras doesn’t have the heart to tell Grantaire he’s dating someone else.”

Les Amis burst out laughing. “Seriously,” Musichetta managed. “The only person Enjolras is cheating on is Patria.”

“Let’s try to be logical about this,” Courfeyrac interjected, mimicking Combeferre. “When did we first notice these changes in the Enjoltaire dynamic?”

Éponine snorted. “Sheesh! They have a ship name already? And why couldn’t it be Granjolras?”

Courf pouted. “Because Enjoltaire sounds cuter. Granjolras sounds like a breakfast cereal.”

“Does not.”

“Does to.”

“Does not.”

“Does to.”

“Do-”

“ **Shut up** ,” Combeferre yelled. “Your bickering isn’t bringing us any closer to the answer.”

After a moment, Cosette asked, “But what if we’re overthinking this?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ferre, I’m Enjolras’ twin sister. No matter how close you two are, I will always have a deeper connection. I think he’s holding out on us, and that the two of them are together.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “And what makes you so sure?”

Cosette’s eyes bored into the guide. “I see the way he looks at Grantaire. He’s never looked at anyone that way in his life. I’ve never been wrong when it comes to my brother, and I’m not wrong now.”

Combeferre sighed. “Okay, let’s say, hypothetically, that you’re right, and they are dating. When did it happen, and how did we miss it?”

“Well, I’d say it started when you reamed Enjolras out,” Jehan finally muttered. “You know. The sixth time Aire didn’t show up for a rally. The last real argument they had.”

Ferre’s eyes widened. “You don’t think…”

Courf nodded. “I think he went over there. And I think they had a heated argument. The pressure was mounting. Bigger, harder, faster. Then BOOM!”

Bahorel bit his lip. “You know, somewhere in there, I think he stopped talking about the argument.”

Courf grinned wickedly. “Perhaps.”

“Courfeyrac, you’re an absolute lech. Nothing like that happened that day,” Cosette said, exasperated.

“And how do you know?”

She looked to Éponine, who subtly nodded her head. “That day, Grantaire attempted suicide. Enjolras was the one to find him.”

A collective gasp went up. “Why didn’t they tell us,” Joly squealed.

Éponine rolled her eyes. “Because Aire didn’t want you all to worry. It was bad enough that Enjolras found him.”

“Why? It saved his life, didn’t it,” Combeferre asked.

“Grantaire’s left a suicide note directly addressed to Enjolras. He said everything short of telling Enjolras that he loved him, but you don’t need to read too far between the lines to get that,” Cosette replied mutedly.

“And Enjolras isn’t an idiot,” Éponine finished.

Ferre cleared his throat. “Cosette, I’ll owe you an apology if you turn out to be right.”

“I am,” she replied confidently. “So I’ll accept the apology now, and wait for the fifty dollars I’m placing on it.” She reached her hand out.

Reluctantly, Combeferre shook her hand. “Agreed.”

Joly cleared his throat. “So, uh, how do we prove it?”

Cosette and Éponine looked at the rest deviously. “We’ve got a few ideas.”

 

* * *

 

While les Amis were quietly discussing them, Grantaire and Enjolras were laughing.

Enjolras, who’d only been feigning sleep to deflect any questions from their friends, had gleefully begun to jump up and down on one of the twin beds.

“Apollo, you’re such a child,” Aire said affectionately, after putting some popcorn in the microwave. “Let me up.”

And it was in such a manner that two mostly grown men began to jump on a bed like five year olds.

“I love hotels,” Grantaire sang.

The timer for the popcorn went off, and Aire jumped off the bed. “It’s your turn to pick a movie. Find us a history lesson that is also a cinematic masterpiece.”

When Grantaire returned with the snack, he found “Titanic” playing. “Geez, Apollo. You were supposed to pick a historical film. Instead, you picked the mother of all chick flicks.”

Enjolras grinned, taking a swig from the bottle of wine they’d smuggled in. “The sinking of the Titanic was a particularly significant historical happening. This film just happens to fall under the category of chick flick as well. Now, hand over that popcorn.”

“Only if you hand over that bottle.”

 

* * *

 

Three and a half hours later, Enjolras was still blowing holes in the movie, pacing the room like a madman.

“They should’ve tried more than once. And if Rose had stayed on the freakin’ lifeboat, Jack could’ve used the door she’s on. He didn’t have to die.”

“Apollo,” Grantaire whined. He’d had enough. He’d always found Enjolras’ ability to speechify on any topic incredibly sexy. The fact that somewhere in the course of the film, Enjolras had divested himself of his t-shirt wasn’t in Aire’s favor. It also wasn’t helping that each man had downed half of the wine; Grantaire’s inhibitions were lowered, and Enjolras had a beautiful, rosy flush coloring his pale skin.

Frustrated, Grantaire repeated his statement. “Apollo.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Enjolras only paused in his pacing to snap back, “Make me.” His wildly passionate eyes bore into Grantaire, and the familiar statement seemed more like a challenge than it ever had.

He stood and put himself in Enjolras’ path. Enjolras looked up at Aire. “I’m not stopping.”

Grantaire didn’t reply; instead, he reached out, letting his hands come to rest on Enjolras’ hips.

“Do you really think that’s going to stop me?” The blonde’s throat was thick. He was already warm from the wine, but the artist’s darkening eyes made his blood boil.

Grantaire backed them towards the door, slamming Enjolras’ spine against the wood. He lifted Enjolras off his feet, forcing the blonde to loop his legs around the artist’s hips.

The revolutionary spoke no more; all he could manage was whimpers and gasps.

Grantaire smirked. Trailing his lips down Enjolras’ jaw, he murmured, “Who knew that Dionysus’ hazing drink is all it takes to silence Apollo’s lyre?”

Enjolras whined; it wasn’t fair. Grantaire, who was obviously as affected as the blonde, was still articulate, making allusions to Greek mythology; Enjolras had been reduced to putty.

Just then, a knock came at the door. “Grantaire? It’s Cosette.”

“Go away, Cosette,” he called back. In the meantime, Enjolras had dropped his forehead on the artist’s shoulder.

“Shut up, Aire. I know you’re awake. Let me in. Marius won’t have any rest in his ass until he hears from your mouth that there is nothing but a strong friendship and partnership between us.”

“He can wait until morning.” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “My mouth’s a little busy at the moment.” Enjolras eyes went wide, and he had to choke back a laugh.

Cosette sighed. “You can go back to blowing Enjolras after you talk to Marius. You’re not the only one looking to get laid around here.”

Grantaire’s face burned. “I’m…not…” He groaned. “Fine! Hold on!”

Enjolras tightened his grip on the artist. “Don’t go.”

“The sooner I leave, the sooner I get back,” Grantaire whispered shakily, still trying to wrap his head around what had just happened.

The blonde reluctantly released his hold on the raven-haired boy, who gently put Enjolras down. He ran over to one of the beds, while Grantaire somewhat unsteadily turned the doorknob, flinging it open. “I’m here.”

Cosette surveyed the flush covering Grantaire from chest to forehead, and the wild look in his eyes. Either he was seriously turned on, or was seriously drunk.

“Here, Grantaire, I have Marius on the phone.”

“You know, there are several things I’d much rather be doing right now.”

“Like my brother?” Grantaire’s stuttering protest and blush were answer enough. “Like I said, you can go back to seducing Enjolras after you help me.”

“If I go back to anything, it’ll be sleeping.” He took her cell. “Pontmercy, let me make something very clear. I hate you and your propensity to be the world’s biggest cockblock.”

“You’re actually...you and Enjolras…” Marius’ voice incredulously stammered.

“You just cockblocked yourself because you don’t trust your girlfriend,” Grantaire exclaimed. “You’re an idiot, Pontmercy. Now, I’m gonna send Cosette back to you in five minutes, and you better have thought up some kinky shit to make up for your lack of trust. Also, while I very much love Cosette, it’s as nothing more than a sister. A sister who better be able to tell her dance partner that she had some hot, crazy sex tomorrow morning at breakfast.”

Marius sounded terrified, and just a bit disgusted. “She tells you about...that?”

“Why are you asking stupid questions? You should be thinking up some kinky shit! Go! You have five minutes.” Grantaire pressed the end call button and handed the phone back to Cosette.

“You’re welcome.”

She grinned and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Aire. Goodnight.”

“Night. Love you, Cosette!”

She playfully smacked his ass. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Right.”

Peering around her dance partner, Cosette called, “Goodnight, big brother.”

“Goodnight,” Enjolras replied, his voice cracking.

She grinned like the Cheshire cat, and then shut the door.

Grantaire dragged a hand over his face, his fingers halting to clutch at his hair.

Enjolras slowly came up behind Grantaire, gently slipping his hand into his. “It’s late.”

The artist nodded. “Yeah.” He squeezed Enjolras’ hand. “C’mon. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

They each claimed a bed, promptly rolling to face away from the other. Neither slept very well, as they were wishing the other was next to him.

* * *

 

Cosette skipped back into the foyer, where the rest of the Amis were waiting. She promptly kissed Marius’ cheek. “You did wonderfully, darling.”

Feuilly clapped the man on the back. “See, Marius? I told you those acting classes would pay off.”

“So, what did you find out,” Combeferre wanted to know.

Cosette grinned. “Something decidedly kinky was going on when I knocked.”

“So you caught them in the act,” Courfeyrac exclaimed lecherously.

“No!” Cosette glared. “All I saw was Grantaire flushed and Enjolras speechless on the bed.”

Combeferre groaned. “So, nothing?”

“Well, nothing definitive, but it’s only day one. We have over a week on the road to prove it.”

“Not to mention,” Éponine added, taking Ferre’s hand, “They’re our best friends. It’s not like the investigation has to end with the road trip.”

Ferre nodded, smiling down at the dark haired girl next to him. “You’re right. C’mon. Let’s get to bed. We have a lot of driving ahead of us tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I'm a dork. Still, I hope you all are enjoying this story! If you are, please feel free to leave comments or kudos! Thank you so much to all the wonderful people who have left comments and kudos already! I'm blushing!


	6. Poise and Rationality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two investigations begin. The Amis query into their friends' relationship status begins full-force. Enjolras and Grantaire's query into their relationship status begins tentatively. Uncomfortable situations arise, silliness ensues, and the climax draws ever closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, mes amis! I apologize for the delay. I got swept up in the flurry of end-of-the-year shenanigans and finals, and neglected you. Forgive me! This isn't as captivating an update as I had hoped, but perhaps it will ebb the pain of my absence. This is my usual fluff and silliness, as I have taken it upon myself to bring some joy to the fandom of Everyone Dies: The Brick/Musical/Movie.  
> I don't own Les Mis, Katy Perry, or anything by Panic! At the Disco.

_“So you caught them in the act,” Courfeyrac exclaimed lecherously._

_“No!” Cosette glared. “All I saw was Grantaire flushed and Enjolras speechless on the bed.”_

_Combeferre groaned. “So, nothing?”_

_“Well, nothing definitive, but it’s only day one. We have over a week on the road to prove it.”_

_“Not to mention,” Éponine added, taking Ferre’s hand, “They’re our best friends. It’s not like the investigation has to end with the road trip.”_

_Ferre nodded, smiling down at the dark haired girl next to him. “You’re right. C’mon. Let’s get to bed. We have a lot of driving ahead of us tomorrow.”_

* * *

 

Grantaire woke up, unsure of his surroundings. This was not his bed. Slowly, memories of the road trip thus far came flooding back, and he realized he was in a hotel bed.

His tired brain vaguely remembered sharing the room with someone. He looked at the other bed, but the only clue as to its occupant was a cascade of blonde curls spilling over the pillow.

Suddenly, the artist’s brain caught up, identifying Enjolras’ hair. Grantaire’s cheeks burned red when he remembered what had happened the previous night. “ _Well, what almost happened,_ ” he mused. Varying outcomes flashed through his thoughts, and Grantaire was left wondering if Cosette’s interruption was a blessing or a curse. Hoping to clear his thoughts a bit, the man stood and headed for the bathroom. 

* * *

 

Enjolras woke to the sounds of water running and Grantaire singing. “ **I’d chime in with a ‘Haven’t you people ever heard of closing a goddamn door’?** ”

The blonde smirked; though his voice retained the hoarseness of the morning, he sang along, “ **No, it's much better to face these kinds of things with a sense of poise and rationality.** ”

Despite being in the other room, Enjolras could hear the grin in the timbre of the other man’s voice. 

* * *

 

Grantaire smiled upon hearing Enjolras’ voice join in; his fears about last night were quieted, knowing that the other man seemed at ease.

He finished showering just as the two of them reached the final chorus. With both the singing and the water ceasing, the space became uncomfortably quiet. Grantaire wrapped one of the fluffy hotel towels around his hips, and grabbed his toothbrush and phone.

He pulled up some pop rock music. The artist sang along, his words garbled by the toothbrush; his thoughts turned wistfully towards his late mother, who often wondered how his teeth got clean between all his singing and dancing.

Grantaire heard the door open, and turned to see Enjolras’ smiling face, holding up his iPhone, clearly taking a video.

Grantaire started bopping, knowing this video would get X-rated if he moved too much and the towel fell.

Enjolras held the phone over his head, and began to dance, albeit poorly.

Aire spit out toothpaste and came up behind Enjolras, wrapping his arms around his waist, and swinging them both from side to side.

Enjolras began to laugh. He turned his head to the side and kissed Grantaire on the cheek. The artist’s eyes went wide, and the blonde cut the video.

“C’mon,” Grantaire said, after a moment. “Get in the shower. I’m hungry, and I know Ferre will be wanting to be out of here as soon as possible.” He kissed the messy blonde curls, and sauntered out of the bathroom.

* * *

 Les Amis watched raptly as Enjolras and Grantaire made their way down to the small dining room, chuckling over some shared secret. Suddenly, the two became aware of the eleven pairs of eyes on them; they cleared their throats, averted their eyes, and made beelines for a table.

Combeferre looked towards Cosette, who nodded surreptitiously. Soundlessly, the girl stood, making her way towards Grantaire and Enjolras. She sat down, but the artist, who was distracted by his sketchpad, and her brother, engrossed in the online news, remained oblivious, prompting her to cough pointedly.

They looked up abruptly, and Grantaire plastered a rather unconvincing grin to his face. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite dance partner.”

“Idiot. I’m your only dance partner.”

“You’re still my favorite.” He paused. “So, did Pontmercy follow my orders?”

Cosette snorted, throwing a glance over her shoulder at her beloved. “Perfectly.” She wasn’t lying; she and Marius had had some fun last night, but they’d have done it even if Grantaire hadn’t threatened the linguist.

“So, what did you do last night? Or rather, who?” She grinned wickedly, her eyes landing on her brother, who was now blushing.

The artist groaned. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Cosette.”

Defending herself, she shot back, “You’re the one who answered the door with wide eyes and flushed skin.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because your brother and I decided that we might as well make the best of the situation. We watched TV and got drunk. You spooked us, because we didn’t expect to have any company.”

Cosette’s eyes flashed toward her twin. Her brother was a lightweight; two beers rendered him completely incapacitated the next day. He wasn’t strictly against such libations; rather, Enjolras tended to need a very good reason to drink. “You convinced Enjolras to get drunk with you? My brother? Drinking to excess with no reason? Yeah, right. I’ll believe that when chickens have teeth.”

Finally the blonde spoke up. “The point is that we managed to spend an entire evening at least pretending that we don’t hate each other.” Enjolras’ tone had become a bit waspish, and Cosette knew that it was time to back off.

“That’s great. Well, I have a Belgian waffle to finish.” She scurried back to her table, sending a quick text to Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Éponine, informing them of what she had gleaned.

* * *

 

Courf, Ferre, and Éponine looked at each other conspiratorially, disbelieving Grantaire’s account about as much as Cosette had. 

“What do you think?”

Ferre shook his head. “I don’t buy it for a minute.”

“Grantaire is lying so obviously that it makes Pinocchio seem incognito.”

Éponine scoffed. “It’s like they’re not even trying.”

* * *

 

Éponine might be surprised to find out that Enjolras and Grantaire weren’t trying. There had never been a conversation in which they had planned to keep their relationship under wraps until such a time as they were both comfortable with telling the others. It was just something that happened. Of course, that was due, in part, to the fact that there had never been a conversation in which they defined their relationship. How could they explain what was going on when they barely had a grasp on it?

* * *

 

“I think we need to discuss…um… _things._ ” Enjolras was obviously uncomfortable.

Grantaire shook his head. “Just because our friends are nosy doesn’t mean we have to rush towards anything for their benefit. What we do is our business, and they can shove it.”

Under the table, Grantaire felt Enjolras squeeze his fingers. “You do know that I don’t hate you?”

“I know. I don’t hate you either.”

* * *

 

Grantaire stretched out, his head landing in Enjolras’ lap. While he loved road trips, the sitting in the car for seemingly endless hours part he hated. It was especially tedious with nothing to do but think. His mind was occupied by the direction his short conversation with Enjolras had been headed.

Right now, they were stuck in the middle of a residential area, going only 15 miles an hour.

“Gah,” he groaned. “I’m so **bored**!”

“What do you want me to do about it,” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then opened them wide, a crazed grin splitting his face. If Les Amis were going to pry into his business, he was at least going to put on a show. He scrambled to whisper something in Courf’s ear.

Enjolras was bemused. “Aire, what are you doing?”

Grantaire threw the window of the hatch open, and climbed out on the roof, knowing Enjolras would follow.

He turned, and found he was right. “What the hell are you doing?”

Grantaire grinned wickedly. “Remember that dance lesson you wanted? Just follow me. Hit it, Courf,” he called.

A Katy Perry song blared out. Grantaire nodded his head to catch the beat, and then did a four count move, nodding for Enjolras to copy his movements.

They danced entirely in such a fashion, as Enjolras was a fast learner, even on top of a moving vehicle.

Cosette pulled up beside the microbus. “Work it, boys,” she called. Grantaire and Enjolras grinned back at her.

From Ferre’s Camry, Musichetta could be heard berating Joly and Bossuet. “Why can’t you two learn to dance like that?”

Grantaire smiled at Enjolras, then threw his arms around him. He pulled back slightly, and his eyes locked with Enjolras’. Forgetting for the time being that their friends were watching, he leaned in slightly, when the song changed, and Grantaire pulled back in defeat.

Enjolras laughed. “Grantaire, may I have this dance?”

Grantaire chuckled. “Anything for you.”

* * *

“Are they seriously dancing to _that_ ,” Éponine asked. “That’s the dumbest song in the world.”

“What’s worse is that in our minds it will forever be their song.”

Éponine cringed, a disturbed smile on her face. “If anyone were to have their song be about an STD, it’d be the two of them.”

Bahorel grinned. “Anyone dancing to ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ on the roof of a moving VW Microbus deserves to have such a song be theirs.”

* * *

 

“Look how happy they are,” Musichetta clucked. “It’s adorable, Combeferre, and you know it.”

Ferre bit his lip. “I know, but I don’t want to see them hurt.”

Bossuet scoffed. “They’re not gonna fall. If any of us were to fall off that roof, it’d be me. Courf’s not even going that fast.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Ferre muttered. 

* * *

 

Jehan shook their head, knowing exactly why their love had chosen such a ridiculous song. “Courf, why are you so hell-bent on cockblocking the two of them?”

“What if Ferre’s right an they end up getting hurt?”

“It’s a freakin’ line dance! How much danger are they really in,” Feuilly shouted, having missed the first part of Courf’s words.

Courf flashed a worried look at Jehan. “This is going to end more poorly than a summer romance.”

Jehan glared at Courf. “You and Ferre have spent far too much time worrying about Enjolras’ well-being.”

“It’s not Enjolras for whom we are worried. We’re worried that Grantaire’s gonna get hurt. We don’t think Enjolras realizes how much Grantaire loves him, and how invested Aire already is in this.”

Jehan rolled their eyes. “You and Ferre are Enj’s best friends. How can you not know how much he loves Aire already?”

Courf’s eyes filled with sadness. “We do know. And you’re right. He does love Grantaire. He may not realize it yet, or he isn’t ready to acknowledge it, but he does. We just don’t know that Grantaire will ever be number one in Enjolras’ life. We don’t want Aire to get his hopes up, just to realize that whatever cause happens to fancy Enjolras will always come first.”

Feuilly narrowed his eyes, having caught on to Courf’s train of thought. “You’re kidding me, right? Enjolras isn’t that thick. I mean, he’s pretty thick, but he can’t possibly be that oblivious.”

“It did take him this long to realize he digs Grantaire,” Courf pointed out.

Feuilly groaned. “They’re the two most stubborn men on planet Earth. It’s not like it’s going to be the perfect, ‘Hey I dig you.’ ‘Hey, I dig you, too.’ ‘Wanna have a go at it?’ ‘Sure.’”

Jehan shot a look at Feuilly. “You’re so unromantic.”

Feuilly glared at Jehan. “Ha. Very funny, Ralph Waldo. You know as well as I do that they’re not going to admit they’re into each other until they screw each other so hard that they can’t walk.”

“Can we not talk about our friends and their potential sexploits,” Jehan interjected. “It’s weird.”

“What’s weird?” Grantaire’s voice suddenly sounded from the back.

“Nothing!” The shout was unanimous.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “You know, when all the people in a room cry ‘nothing’ in unison, it does tend to make the nothing sound like a something.”

“Well, it’s nothing,” Jehan assured them. “It was an inside joke.”

“I see,” Grantaire murmured, not believing any of them for a second. “Well, I’m hungry. When are we stopping again?”

“Not for at least another few hours,” Courf replied.

Grantaire groaned. “Fine. I’m going to sleep, then. Wake me when we get there.”

He slumped down on the floor, his head landing in Enjolras’ lap again.

Enjolras closed his eyes, planning on following Grantaire’s example.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Either way, leave a comment. Kudos are always appreciated. You can find me at thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com


	7. Underneath an Innocent Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A common cliché for road trip stories is for people to get lost. Les Amis de l'ABC are no exception. The stars, in their multitudes, illuminate the shades of love within the tight-knit group of friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a sort of filler chapter, but the last, I promise. This chapter was needed to bridge the gap to the ending, which I finally have planned out. I apologize for the delay, but my work schedule doesn't always permit me the free time I need to write. This has a lot of Les Amis fluff, and is the sort of calm before the storm. I hope you enjoy.  
> As always, I don't own Les Mis.

Enjolras was startled awake by harsh voices outside of the van.

“You blooming idiot! I can’t believe you got us lost,” Cosette shrieked.

Courfeyrac weakly defended himself. “We’re not lost…we’re temporarily relocated.”

Combeferre groaned. “However you choose to phrase it, we have no idea where we are.”

Enjolras blearily looked around. Grantaire sat in the corner, quietly strumming his guitar, and amused smile on his face. The back hatch was open, and Jehan sat on the amorphous hump covering the engine braiding Feuilly’s wild red hair. Through the hatch, Enjolras could see that Marius had joined Éponine and Bahorel in the back of Cosette’s convertible, where they were severely beating him at blackjack. He could also see that Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet had formed a massage train of sorts in the back of Ferre’s Camry.

“Do I even want to know what’s going on,” Enjolras quipped to no one in particular.

Not looking up from the ginger hair in front of them, Jehan replied, “Courf took the wrong exit, and then made several more wrong turns in an attempt to get back to the main road, and now we’re in a field in the middle of nowhere, and it’s nearly dusk. In short, we’re very lost, and very screwed.”

“It’s not that bad,” Grantaire remarked. “We have tents. We have food. We have water. We have beer,” he added with a glimmer in his eye.

Enjolras snorted. “Let me handle this.” He slid the door open, and climbed out, pacing towards where Courf was ducking punches from a swinging Cosette who was restrained by Combeferre.

Enjolras stepped between Courfeyrac and Cosette. Pulling the girl into his arms, Enjolras wiped her tears away. “Just because you are my best friends, does not mean you have the right to make my sister cry.”

He turned his attention to the weeping blonde. “And you. I know you’re upset, but you shouldn’t yell. We can’t be that far off the beaten path.”

The three drivers hung their heads in shame.

Enjolras turned back to the van. Jehan, Feuilly, and Grantaire had left the stiff seats of the vehicle in favor of the soft, sweet-smelling grass. “Grantaire, can you give me a hand? Lift me onto the roof of the van, would you?”

“Sure.” Grantaire laid down his guitar, and looped his arms around Enjolras’ knees, forcing the blonde to sit on his shoulders.

Once Enjolras was in the air, he leaned toward the red van, landing on all fours on the metal. He carefully stood, peering around their surroundings.

“What do you see,” Feuilly called.

Enjolras smiled. “There’s a group of cabins in a valley about five hundred yards away. At least one looks occupied. There are lights in the window and smoke from the chimney. There might be someone there who can help us. Does that sound amenable to everyone?” He directed his gaze to the three arguing Amis.

Cosette pouted, but sighed. “Fine.”

“Courf? Ferre?”

“Sure.”

“That sounds alright to me.”

“Good. Grantaire, if you would."

The artist stepped up to the side of the van, turning his back on the blonde. Enjolras slid onto Grantaire’s back, tightly cinching his arms and legs around his torso.

Grantaire stepped away from the van, gently letting Enjolras’ feet touch the ground.

Éponine had meandered towards the gathering, counting the winnings she’d collected from Bahorel and Marius. “So, what’s up,” she asked, tilting against Combeferre.

The bespectacled man answered. “Enj spotted a group of cabins not far away. We’re going to drive over there and see if there’s anyone there who can offer us some help.”

“Sweet. I’ll tell the others.”

* * *

 

In about ten minutes, the Amis had themselves sorted. Cosette, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre had apologized to each other, and each of the Amis returned to their respective vehicles. Courf, under Enjolras’ careful direction, led the pack towards the cabins.

They parked at the bottom of the hill, and piled out, turning towards the cabins. “Well, there’s definitely worse places to stay for the night,” Musichetta murmured.

Abruptly, an ear-splitting scream rang out. The Amis, with Feuilly at the head, took off in the direction of the cries.

Hanging from the eaves was a young girl with purplish-red hair, a tipped-over ladder laying on the ground. Feuilly stood under her flailing legs. “Let me help you! Let go, and I’ll catch you!”

The girl scoffed. “Who do you think I am? Some damsel in distress?”

“Well, you are the one about to fall from a great height.”

“No I’m no-.” Her words were cut off by another screech as her fingers lost their grip and she fell.

True to his word, Feuilly caught the girl securely in his arms.

Their eyes locked, and both seemed to forget to breathe.

“Hi. I’m…I’m Feuilly. Uh, A-Anton. Anton Feuilly.”

A shy grin appeared on her face. “Meghan. Meghan Wood. Good to meet you, Tony.”

“Tony?” The hushed question rose up amongst the Amis. Bahorel turned incredulously towards Grantaire. “He never lets anyone call him Anton, let alone _Tony_.”

The artist shrugged.

“What were you doing up there,” Feuilly asked.

“I was cleaning out the gutters when my ladder fell. And what about you? I mean, I’m incredibly grateful to you for saving me, but you sort of showed up out of nowhere. What are you doing here?”

Feuilly blushed. “We…my friends and I…we’re on a road trip, and we got lost. We saw these cabins, and thought there might be someone here who could help us.”

Meghan grinned. “Well, I can’t direct you to the main road, but,” she said, pointing to the presumably occupied cabin, “My parents are in there. They might be able to give you directions. Actually, knowing them, they’ll insist you stay with us for the night.”

“Great.” Feuilly began walking towards the cabin.

Meghan giggled. “Um, Tony. You can…you can put me down now.”

“R-right. Y-you…you can walk on your own,” the red-faced man stuttered.

The Amis snickered at the awkward, and undeniably cute exchange that they had witnessed.

* * *

 Meghan was right; her parents were more than happy to accommodate the eleven travelers for the night.

“We were just about to have dinner around the campfire,” her mother, Danielle, informed them. “Follow me.”

They trouped around the back of the cabin.

Meghan’s father, William, waved at his guests from his place by the fire. “Howdy! We’re whipping up some poor man’s dinner!”

Joly’s brow crinkled. “Poor man’s what?”

“Poor man’s dinner,” Meghan supplied. “It’s basically a mix of veggies and meat wrapped in tinfoil and cooked over the embers of the fire. Well, it usually has meat, but I forgot to buy it at the store, so I suppose we’re going vegetarian tonight.”

“That’s alright,” Feuilly assured her. “Most of us are vegetarians anyway.”

“Perfect.”

* * *

Not long after they had finished eating, Danielle and William had retreated to bed. After that, the Amis, along with Meghan, had spread out across the vast space.

Bahorel was leaning up against one of the cabins, on the phone with his girlfriend. None of the Amis had ever actually met her, but the infectious laughter they always heard from her end of the phone proved her existence.

At the moment, they were discussing the age-old question as to when Bahorel would introduce her to his friends.

“Sweetie, I’m beginning to think that you’re ashamed of me!”

Bahorel blushed. “No, it’s not that. It’s just…well, you’re not exactly going to meet their expectations.”

Her tone became hostile. “Such as?”

“They’re going to expect an athlete who wears workout clothes all the time, not…”

“Not a double amputee who wears only floral patterns?”

“Yeah. I’m not ashamed of you, though. I’m just…you know how our protests tend to get. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

One of her trademark laughs rang out. “Honey, I may not have any legs, but I can still kick your ass.”

Bahorel snorted. “Don’t I know it? I’m sorry I’m such an idiot. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

 Courfeyrac and Jehan were stretched out in the grass.

The poet was gazing at the stars, reciting a poem. “Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among themselves, ‘Vain is this seeking! Unbroken perfection is over all!’”

Prouvaire had one of Courf’s hands grasped in theirs, tracing intricate designs into the palm, following the lilting rise and fall of their quiet voice.

Courfeyrac’s brain was rendered into incompetency.

The immensity of the night sky, mixed with the poet’s gentle voice and the tender brush of skin on his hand was too much for Courfeyrac to handle. His mind blanked, save for the thought that the poem Jehan was quoting was right; unbroken perfection was over all.

* * *

 

Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly laid in the grass, watching the stars as well. The three of them took turns telling stories.

Joly pointed out all the major constellations, and explained the mythology behind them.

Bossuet found his own patterns in the stars, making up a story for each of his invented constellations.

Musichetta, with her Iroquois roots, told Native American star stories.

“Long ago, a great bear roamed the land. Many believed he possessed magical powers. This bear was greatly feared, and it terrorized my ancestors’ villages. Finally, four hunters, with their dog, set out to capture the beast. They caught its trail, and immediately began their pursuit. The hunt was very long; the bear was cunning, and led them on a wild chase. The chase led them up a mountain and into the sky; you can see them now today. When the autumn comes, and the bear runs close to the horizon, the blood from his wounds drips down and paints the leaves red and brown. My people named this formation the Great Bear. As years passed, it would become known as the Big Dipper.” 

* * *

 

Cosette and Marius were dancing. Well, due to Marius’ two left feet, it was more walking in a circle while holding each other than true dancing.

Cosette couldn’t care less. She was in the arms of the man she loved; she didn’t mind that he wasn’t following the beat of the tune she’d been tenderly humming.

“I’m afraid Grantaire’s a better dance partner than I.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Marius blushed. “Cosette, I can barely walk without falling.”

“Yes, but can I do this to Grantaire,” she asked before pressing a warm kiss to the man’s mouth.

* * *

 

Feuilly and Meghan sat cross-legged facing each other. They were deeply embroiled in a thumb war. They were well-matched opponents, as neither had made any headway.

Meghan thought she might be able to distract Feuilly with a question. “You called yourselves Les Amis de l’ABC. What sort of name is that for a group of friends?”

Feuilly’s brow furrowed as he tried to concentrate on the battle and the question. “Well, we’re all friends, but we’re also an activist group. We advocate for human rights.”

Eventually, the two began asking each other more questions about the other’s life, and the thumb war was gradually abandoned. Despite the end to the battle between digits, neither made a move to pull their hand from the other’s grasp. 

* * *

 

Éponine had hauled Combeferre over to a willow tree. The roots wove themselves in and out of the soil, creating natural benches.

Ferre perched on one of the roots, refusing to join Éponine, who had yanked her boots off and scaled up the branches. Just as he was about to call out to her, she dropped from the branches, landing neatly on her feet just in front of Ferre. Her sudden appearance startled him, and he fell backwards. She laughed, and threw herself down next to him, dropping a chaste kiss on his lips. Just as she was about to pull away, he took her face between his hands, pressing his lips to her now smiling ones.

When he finally pulled away, Éponine couldn’t help but notice the strange look in his eyes.

“What is it?”

Combeferre lowered his eyes and whispered something that Éponine couldn’t make out. “Come again?”

His eyes flickered to meet hers. “I…I love you. You know that, right?”

She grinned. “Yeah, I know. I love you, too, you big nerd.” 

* * *

 

Enjolras and Grantaire sat by what was left of the fire.

The artist, quietly strumming his guitar, watched the firelight dance in the blonde’s curls. Enjolras was facing away from the fire, peering up at the night sky.

Realizing that, for once, none of the Amis was paying them any attention, Grantaire laid his guitar down, and stepped behind Enjolras. He wrapped his arms gently around the blonde’s waist, not wanting to spook him.

Grantaire was pleasantly surprised when Enjolras drew him closer, arms tightly around his shoulders. The artist gingerly began to rub up and down the revolutionary’s spine. Enjolras, in return, began to card Grantaire’s dark curls between his fingers.

The artist tipped his head back into the other man’s touch, altering his center of gravity, and he fell backwards, pulling Enjolras into the soft grass with him.

Enjolras snickered, rolling over so that he was side by side with Grantaire.

For a moment, they sat up on their elbows, merely gazing at the stars. The silence was broken by Grantaire, “I’ll sing to you of silver swans, of kingdoms and carillons.”

“I’ll sing of bodies intertwined underneath an innocent sky,” Enjolras finished as he reached out to cup Grantaire’s face. They both stared at each other, wide eyed.

Suddenly their names were being called, the Amis seeking some help with setting up camp.

They both reluctantly rose, regretting what could have been, and cursing their friends’ untimely interruption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blushes, laughs nervously, hides face* I thought this chapter was crap, personally. It's going to get better, I promise. Every chapter to the end is going to be action-packed.  
> I have a lot of references to a lot of things:  
> Meghan, and the whole "damsel in distress" thing is a blatant reference to Disney's "Hercules."  
> The poem Jehan is reciting is "Lost Star" by Rabindranath Tagore.  
> The story Musichetta tells is one of many versions of the Iroquois tale of the "Great Bear."  
> The two lines Enjolras and Grantaire say at the end are a direct quote from "Footloose," which these dorks watched in "Make Me."  
> If you enjoyed this, please let me know by leaving a comment or a kudos.  
> You can follow me on Tumblr at thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com


	8. Truth or Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, Les Amis are sneaky, Enjolras is gullible, and Grantaire is jealous. The End of the Line is fast approaching; what does it hold in store for our favorite lovebirds and their conniving friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I haven't updated in a while. Since I got a job, a lot of my free time has been eaten up, and so I rarely have the time or ambition to post. Hopefully you aren't disappointed with this chapter. Hopefully, I'll have another up tomorrow, since it'll be my day off, and I have parts of it pre-written. Enjoy, mes amis!

_Previously:_

_For a moment, they sat up on their elbows, merely gazing at the stars. The silence was broken by Grantaire, “I’ll sing to you of silver swans, of kingdoms and carillons.”_

_“I’ll sing of bodies intertwined underneath an innocent sky,” Enjolras finished as he reached out to cup Grantaire’s face. They both stared at each other, wide eyed._

_Suddenly their names were being called, the Amis seeking some help with setting up camp._

_They both reluctantly rose, regretting what could have been, and cursing their friends’ untimely interruption._

* * *

 

While still back at the hotel, les Amis sans Grantaire and Enjolras had made a new plan to oust whatever was going on between their unofficial leader and the resident cynic.

* * *

 

_Éponine had stood on a table. “Okay, so does anyone have any brilliant ideas?”_

_Bahorel snorted. “I thought that you and Cosette were the masterminds behind this whole scheme.”_

_“While we are loathe to admit it, Cosette and I are human. We’ve never had to make more than four plans because we’ve never dealt with people as stubborn as Enjolras and Grantaire,” she shot back, glaring at her muscular friend._

_“And any of the plans that we have would require housing a little more hospitable to shenanigans than a hotel.”_

_“Well, we did say that we wanted to camp out at least one of the nights,” Joly observed. “Against my better judgment, perhaps we could spend a night in the tents.”_

_“Not a bad idea, Joly, but campgrounds don’t offer much in the way of privacy. They tend to have set ‘quiet hour,’” Cosette pointed out._

_“So we don’t go to a campground,” Marius said softly._

_The rest of the group rounded on him. “What do you mean?”_

_“Honey, that’d be wonderful, but camping anywhere else would be called trespassing,” Cosette reminded him gently._

_Marius stumbled over his words a bit before regaining his composure. “Not necessarily. I know of a family who lives not far from here. They have a huge property with several cabins. We could pretend to get lost, and ask to stay there for the night.”_

_Ten pairs of eyes widened and stared at the linguist. “That,” Combeferre began, “is quite a brilliant idea.” He turned his attention to Cosette and Éponine. “Does that accommodate your schemes?”_

_They grinned devilishly. “Most definitely.”_

* * *

 

Yes, Les Amis de l’ABC were a crafty group. Everything had been a carefully planned ruse.

Courfeyrac had made several wrong turns according to Marius’ careful directions.

Cosette had scripted the argument between herself and the other two drivers.

Les Amis had agreed to let either Enjolras or Grantaire discover the property so as not to arouse their suspicions.

Feuilly rescuing Meghan was not planned, but turned out to be a huge bonus; the redhead had proved to be just as conniving and resourceful as Cosette and Éponine, adding another layer of deviousness to the plot.

* * *

 

Grantaire sighed, trudging into the cabin the Woods’ had allowed them.

Les Amis, as per the plan, had set their sleeping bags in a ring around a lantern, only leaving a small gap for the artist, right next to Enjolras. They busied themselves with changing into their sleepwear.

Grantaire rolled his sleeping bag out and collapsed on top of it, not bothering with the zipper.

Now, lying on a wooden floor with only a sleeping bag as a buffer was never particularly comfortable, but Grantaire was especially uncomfortable. He realized that he’d neglected to remove his jeans. Groaning, he haphazardly kicked them off, leaving him in a t-shirt and boxers.

Enjolras squeaked, and Grantaire remembered why he always wore long pants.

* * *

 

Once again, Enjolras mentally slapped himself for not being more aware of Grantaire’s tattoos.

Had he been paying more attention to the gallery on permanent display, he wouldn’t have let out a rather unmanly squeal that drew the eagerly expectant gazes of his comrades.

Enjolras tried to avert his eyes, but the ink drew his gaze regardless.

A watercolor tattoo covered the length of Grantaire’s right leg. Multi-colored splotches of paint strategically forced your eye to follow the curve of his thigh and the swell of his calf. Enjolras somehow knew that this particular design was his sister’s.

On the other leg was a story.

On the lower part of his leg, greyish flames stretched up, curling around a pomegranate on the artist’s knee. Enjolras couldn’t see the other end of the tattoo clearly because of Grantaire’s boxers.

Grantaire took notice of this, and slid the hem of his pants up, revealing the terminal of the tattoo, which was stalks of black wheat curling up from the fruit, and ending in floating chaff.

It was a beautiful piece of art, but it made no sense to Enjolras. His furrowed brow and worried lip gave this away, so Grantaire quietly murmured, “Hades and Persephone.”

Suddenly the art made sense; the flames and wheat formed the figures of their respective deities.

Enjolras was just about to comment on the art, when Cosette cleared her throat emphatically.

The two men turned their backs on each other sheepishly.

“If you two are done undressing each with your eyes, we’re going to play a game.”

Grantaire flipped the girl off. “Shut up, Cosette. What are we playing?”

Returning the crude gesture, she grinned devilishly. “Truth or Dare.”

Enjolras’ eyes grew wide, and he began to shake his head frantically. “Oh no. I am not getting roped into any such shenanigans. Try, and I’ll tell Valjean that the long weekend you spent with Ép and Chetta was spent in South Beach.”

Nonplussed, she shot back, “If you don’t, I’ll tell Javert that you’re the one who covered his patrol car in spray paint. I’m sure you could use another misdemeanor on your record.”

Enjolras knew his sister wasn’t lying; she’d have no qualms about ratting Enjolras out. “Damn,” he muttered, seeing no other way out of his predicament.

* * *

 

A lot can happen in an hour. For example, underwear was being worn as hats, people had kissed, secrets had been divulged, and egos had been bruised.

Fortunately for Enjolras, he’d survived surprisingly unscathed, taking “truth,” on every turn, despite having to admit how long his rap sheet was, how fond he was of “Marina and the Diamonds,” and that he had almost failed the 1st grade. So at ease was he that he didn’t register the next dare that had been doled out until his name was pronounced.

“What about me,” he cried.

Meghan grinned devilishly. “I was just dared to kiss you. Pucker up, blondie.”

Enjolras froze. This was exactly why he’d refused to play this idiotic game in the past. Cosette would pay.

He chanced a glance in Grantaire’s direction. The artist’s jaw was set, his eyes narrowed, and his dexterous fingers were clenched into fists.

Enjolras opened his mouth, in some attempt to apologize to Aire, when his head was forcibly turned away by Meghan’s hand.

The blonde screwed his eyes shut as the redhead lips neared his. Just before their mouths would have met, she changed her trajectory, and planted her lips near his ear. During the chorus of disappointed moans from the Amis, she whispered, “The only reason I didn’t kiss you full on the lips is because I was afraid Tats would rip my head off.”

Enjolras blushed, glancing over to Grantaire, whose body had finally relaxed.

Eventually, the hubbub died down, Meghan returned to her spot, and Combeferre abruptly announced that they should all catch some z’s.

* * *

 

Enjolras heaved a sigh of relief; Meghan was lovely, but he was saving his first kiss for Grantaire. The blonde didn’t care that it made it seem like he had a schoolyard crush. He knew what he wanted.

He knew with whom he wanted to share his first kiss.

He knew with whom he wanted to share a lot of kisses.

Hell, he knew with whom he wanted to share his life.

In short, Enjolras wanted Grantaire.

* * *

 

The blonde’s desires were not unrequited. Grantaire’s blood had boiled at the prospect of Meghan kissing Enjolras. The poor man was nearly stripped of his first kiss at the hands of his so-called friends.

Grantaire believed that Enjolras should get to choose to whom he would give his first kiss.

Grantaire also had his own beliefs about whom Enjolras should choose. He’d staunchly deny it, but Grantaire had high hopes that the blonde would choose him.

“It’d better be soon,” the artist thought, because it was becoming harder to restrain himself from violently snagging that precious lip-lock.

* * *

 

“You’ll stop in on your way back,” Mrs. Woods asked hopefully.

Combeferre pecked the matron on the cheek. “Absolutely. And again, we are eternally grateful for your hospitality on such short notice.”

The woman grinned. “Any time, sweethearts. I’ll make sure to have cookies ready for you when you arrive.”

“As if we needed extra incentive,” Feuilly murmured

“Well,” interjected Meghan, stepping out from behind her mother, “in case you do…” She trailed off, walking boldly toward Feuilly.

“Wha-” He was cut off as Meghan planted a searing kiss on his lips. As she pulled away, she smacked his bum, and whispered, “There’s more where that came from, tiger.”

Breathless, Feuilly weakly waved, and turned on his heel. As he passed Enjolras, he murmured, “Dude, you’re really missing out.”

Turning his blue gaze to the artist busily helping Courfeyrac pack, he muttered, “Don’t I know it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that chapter was ludicrously short, but I hope you'll forgive me, since I'm posting a much longer (and potentially much steamier) chapter tomorrow. Don't worry, nothing is going to get graphic. :) Kudos are like cookies to writers, so... Also, feel free to tell me what you thought in a comment!   
> You can follow me on Tumblr at: thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com


	9. Just a Half Mile From the Railroad Track

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis: Mystery Incorporated. The Amis become the very definition of "those meddling kids," and stir up trouble in paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the delay in posting. Vacation got in the way, and I neglected you lovelies! I hope this chapter makes up for it.  
> As always, I don't own Les Mis.

_“As if we needed extra incentive,” Feuilly murmured_

_“Well,” interjected Meghan, stepping out from behind her mother, “in case you do…” She trailed off, walking boldly toward Feuilly._

_“Wha-” He was cut off as Meghan planted a searing kiss on his lips. As she pulled away, she smacked his bum, and whispered, “There’s more where that came from, tiger.”_

_Breathless, Feuilly weakly waved, and turned on his heel. As he passed Enjolras, he murmured, “Dude, you’re really missing out.”_

_Turning his blue gaze to the artist busily helping Courfeyrac pack, he muttered, “Don’t I know it?”_

* * *

 

As Enjolras approached the microbus, he saw his sister, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac poring over a map.

Enjolras pecked his sister on the cheek, ducked under her arm, and climbed into the back of the van.

Grantaire had already situated himself in the back, charcoal clutched tightly in hand. Gently lighting beside the artist, Enjolras tucked his chin over Grantaire’s shoulder so he could observe the brunet at work.

“Hey there, Apollo,” Grantaire murmured, a smirk in his voice.

Enjolras grinned, and looped his arms around the artist’s waist. Grantaire laid down the chunk of charcoal, gingerly grabbing Enjolras’ wrist and inspecting the pale skin of his inner arm.

Rooting through his bag of drawing utensils, Grantaire brought out a red, silver, and blue permanent marker.

Silently, he used each marker to draw a simple ring around the revolutionary’s arm. When he was finished, he returned the newly decorated arm to Enjolras. “There you go French fry. A minimalist rendition of your heritage.”

Enjolras grimaced a bit at the nickname, but was thoroughly impressed by the simple design’s beauty. Turning his arm this way and that, he smiled. “I think I could get used to something like this.”

“It’s been a while, but if you really like it, I could make it permanent when we get home.”

Enjolras had never really considered body art, but the prospect of having a piece of Grantaire forever on his skin was irresistible. “Are you serious? You’d…ink me up?”

Grantaire nodded blithely. “Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Enjolras’ voice belied no uncertainty; the only thing he was surer of was that he was desperately in love with the artist.

“I’m in love!”

The moment was broken by Feuilly’s bombastic cry.

Grantaire arched a brow. “That makes two of us,” he muttered.

“What was that,” Enjolras whispered.

“Huh? Oh, nothing. Just, talking to myself.”

Enjolras shrugged, turning to look out the window.

* * *

 

They hadn’t even been on the road five minutes when Courfeyrac groaned. “I feel like I’m driving a freakin’ hearse. You guys are as silent as the grave!”

Irritably, Enjolras growled, “We are running on less than four hours of sleep and have had no coffee. What do you want us to do?”

“Entertain me!”

“What do you want us to do,” Grantaire asked. “Dress in drag and do the hula?”

Jehan and Feuilly chuckled at the artist’s well-timed cinematic reference.

Courf scowled at his passengers in the rear-view mirror. “Ha. You’re so funny. I’m practically crying. Just for that…” He fiddled with his phone, cranking up the volume.

The passengers winced at the electric bubblegum pop that assaulted their ears.

“Courfeyrac, you are no longer my best friend just on principle,” Enjolras shouted.

Even Jehan was disgusted. “If you’re going to play bubblegum pop, at least play something good.”

Courf was frustrated at this point. Thrusting his phone at the poet, he spat, “Fine, Mozart, you find something.”

Jehan turned the radio down, and began scrolling through Courf’s music. 

* * *

 

Now that his eardrums were not in immediate danger, Enjolras turned back to face Grantaire.

No words were exchanged; Grantaire merely stretched out, his head taking up residence on the blonde’s thigh.

Absentmindedly, Enjolras began twirling Grantaire’s raven curls around his fingers. In minutes, Grantaire was snoring softly, his features relaxing.

Enjolras grinned, tipping his own head back, drifting off to dreamland. 

* * *

 

While the two turtledoves slept, Jehan was furiously whispering to Éponine over the phone.

“You haven’t protested our little schemes till now!”

The poet sighed. “Because up until now, they’ve been fairly harmless. Nothing more than what we did to you and Ferre. Interrogating them? That’s crossing the line into meddling. Whatever is going on was doing beautifully before we stuck our noses into it.”

At this point, Cosette took the phone from her friend. “And it’s not doing beautifully now? We’re just helping them along!”

“When we all agreed to this, we agreed to find out what was going on. We never agreed to this.”

Cosette sighed. “Look, I understand your hesitance. It’s never exactly been smooth sailing when it comes to anything involving Enjolras and Grantaire, but I know my best friend and I know my brother. Whatever is going on is moving along at a snail’s pace, and neither of them is going to make a move on the other without a little guidance.”

Jehan raked a hand through their hair. “Fine. I just hope you know what you are doing.”

* * *

“Hey, Sleeping Beauties! We’re here,” Cosette yelled, banging on the window of Courfeyrac’s van.

Grantaire blearily sat up, and roused Enjolras.

As they climbed out of the van, Grantaire asked, “Where are we?”

With the exuberance of children, Courfeyrac, Cosette, and Éponine cried, “Alice’s Restaurant!”

“I knew it existed,” Grantaire cried gleefully. “We’re even in a red VW microbus.”

Cosette grinned. “I know. Too bad we don’t have shovels and rakes and implements of destruction. You know, I feel like Arlo Guthrie and Enjolras might’ve gotten along.”

“They’d have at least agreed on the draft.”

“That’s very true.” Cosette beamed.

Leaning into his dance partner’s side, the artist sang, “ _You can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant._ ”

“ _Excepting Alice,_ ” Éponine sang.

“What,” Enjolras asked, completely confused.

“ _You can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant,_ ” Cosette sang, as though explaining it to Enjolras.

“ _Walk right in, it’s around the back,_ ” Courf sang, slinging his arm around his shoulder.

“ _Just a half a mile from the railroad track,_ ” Grantaire sang, his eyes twinkling as he grabbed Enjolras’ hands, swaying him from side to side.

“ _You can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant,_ ” the four of them sang in four-part harmony, with feeling.

Enjolras looked at them as though they were crazy. “Are you guys okay?”

Cosette grinned, hugging Enjolras from behind. “Of course, we’re okay. It’s Alice’s Restaurant. Arlo Guthrie. Ring a bell?”

Enjolras’ expression was vacant.

“Cosette, he didn’t know what ‘Anaconda’ was,” Grantaire murmured, reaching up to ruffle the blonde curls.

“Oh, God, Enj. I swear to Patria you live under a rock,” Éponine cried.

Courf chuckled. “That’s what Jehan said.”

“C’mon. I’m hungry,” Grantaire complained.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, smiling affectionately at the artist. “Well, let’s go then!”

“Hey, Aire! Race you to the entrance,” Éponine called.

His eyes narrowed devilishly. “You’re on.”

The two of them took off, leaving Enjolras far behind.

* * *

 The group entered the restaurant a bit noisily. While the four “Alice’s Restaurant” enthusiasts sang a boisterous cover in four-part harmony, the others were asking unanswered questions about the “massacree” to the vocalists.

An older woman tottered to the front, a bright grin on her face. Her nametag identified her as none other than Alice. “You know the song?”  
Cosette nodded enthusiastically.

The woman laughed heartily. “It’s been so long since I’ve had customers who got the joke. Welcome!”

* * *

 

Before Enjolras could get very close to Grantaire, the artist was shuffled to a booth with his fellow singers.

Combeferre grabbed the blonde’s arm, pulling him towards a booth across the restaurant.

Enjolras sank low into his seat, pouting a bit because he could not see Grantaire from here.

The bespectacled man waited to question his companion until after Alice had taken their order.

“So you and Grantaire have been pretty chummy this whole trip,” Ferre stared lamely. He’d not been entirely on board with Cosette and Éponine’s latest plan.

The blonde hummed. “Aire’s pretty good company, I suppose.” A wistful smile tugged at his lips. In his opinion, Grantaire was some of the best company in the world.

Following the last resort plan that had been made, Combeferre got straight to the point. “What’s going on between you two?”

Enjolras quickly looked away, beginning to toy with his fork. “What makes you think anything is going on between us?”

Combeferre grinned kindly, and stilled his friend’s hands by placing one of his own over them. “Enj, we’re not stupid, and you’re not as good at hiding things as you think you are.” Just then, Alice stopped at the table, and set a strawberry milkshake in front of Enjolras. “Courtesy of the attractive young man at that table over there,” she sang, indicating Grantaire.

The blonde blushed. “Tell him he’d better find some less cliché flirting techniques if he wants to get anywhere with me.”

“Will do.”

As Alice sashayed away, Combeferre turned to Enjolras, his gaze condemning. “And you say there’s nothing going on.”

“It’s not like Grantaire hasn’t flirted with me from the get-go.”

“Yes, but it’s only recently that you’ve been flirting back.”

Enjolras froze, realizing that they’d been caught. He opened his mouth to answer his friend when he realized something: he couldn’t accurately define what he and the artist had been caught in, and that bothered him. His mind now far from the conversation, he muttered shakily, “It’s none of your business.”

Knowing he’d pushed his friend too far, Combeferre bowed his head. 

* * *

 

“A milkshake? Really?”

Grantaire stuck his tongue out at Éponine. “Is flirting a crime?”

“That’s a little sentimental, even for you,” Courf chimed.

Alice returned from presenting Enjolras with his frozen confection. She grinned at Grantaire. “He says to tell you that if you’re going to get anywhere with him, you’d better find some less cliché flirting techniques.”

Cosette choked on her soda. “Enjolras said that? Since when can my brother flirt?”

Alice chuckled as she walked away.

Three pairs of eyes were suddenly on Grantaire. He shifted uncomfortably. “What?”

Éponine was the first to speak up. “I don’t recall Cosette giving you permission to date her brother.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “We’re not dating.”

A squeal rose from Courfeyrac’s throat. “Friends with benefits! I never pegged Enjolras for something so…dispassionate.”

“We’re not friends with benefits, either.”

“Then what are you?”

Grantaire was irritated. Thus far, the teasing they’d endured was harmless, and non-threatening to the burgeoning of whatever this was. If they’d decided to interrogate him, they were definitely interrogating Enjolras. The artist knew this would put pressure on the blonde. Turning his attention to Enjolras, he spat, “None of your business.”

* * *

 After a lunch that very much mirrored a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn’t be beat, Grantaire bounded up to the friendly hostess. “Ma’am, could we have a picture?”

The woman hugged Aire, nodding her head. “Of course, sweetie!”

Courf pulled his van in front of the restaurant, in full view of the restaurant’s sign. Les Amis posed with Alice, the red van and the restaurant behind them, while Alice’s husband Ray took the photo on Cosette’s phone.

Cosette immediately sent the photo to the email address that Alice had given her.

“You all come back here sometime, you hear?”

“Yes ma’am,” Éponine chimed.

They waved goodbye, and got back on the road.

* * *

 

Grantaire was concerned. Despite the questioning he’d been dealt, he’d not been oblivious to the interrogation Combeferre had put Enjolras through. He could tell that Enjolras had not answered confidently, and the distance he’d put between them in the van obviated this insecurity; the blonde had crawled into the farthest corner from Grantaire, keeping his gaze staunchly out the window.

“ _Maybe he just needs some space,_ ” Grantaire thought. “ _Maybe he needs to think._ ” The artist reluctantly returned his attention to his sketchpad.

* * *

Les Amis stopped at a little diner for supper.

Grantaire made a point to sit with Joly and Bossuet at dinner, giving Enjolras the space the artist assumed he needed.

The blonde didn’t even spare a glance for the artist, moving to sit with his sister. 

* * *

 

Hotel check-in was quite the awkward affair. Grantaire was already on eggshells around Enjolras, and the blonde wasn’t making any attempts to relieve the situation’s tension.

In fact, the only thing Enjolras had done since changing his clothes was sit on the bed and pull his knees to his chest, his eyes blankly staring at the news.

Grantaire walked out of the bathroom, and grabbed the room key. “You coming, or what?”

“Hmm?”

The artist stared at his beat-up Chucks. “Oh, um, there’s a concert going on out back. We’d…the Amis…had talked about meeting up. Are you coming?”

“Yeah, um, right.”

He stood, and made for the door, the artist stopping him short with a hand. “Are you alright?”

Enjolras shrugged Grantaire’s hand away. “I’m fine.” 

* * *

 

Jehan cheerfully greeted the two. “We were starting to think that you weren’t gonna show.”

“What else would we have done?”

They shrugged and guided them to an open table near the makeshift stage.

* * *

 

Enjolras fidgeted. He knew things were off between himself and the artist, and the fact that all of the Amis were watching only made the tension worse.

Suddenly, he stood up, and began walking away from the table.

“Where are you going?”

He winced, having hoped that his departure would go unnoticed. Turning to answer Jehan, he lied, “Uh, I forgot something in the room.”

Prouvaire raised a brow. “Okay.”

As Enjolras rushed away, the poet elbowed the artist. “Are you going to go after him?”

Grantaire quizzically peered over at his friend. “What?”

“Our friends just made apparent what was going to be an issue sooner or later. You need to tell him.” Thye gestured to where Enjolras’ form was disappearing in the distance.

Grantaire gasped, and pressed a kiss to the top of the poet’s head. “Thanks, Jehan.”

The cynic took off after the revolutionary he loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this chapter is a bit anti-climactic, but I promise, it's going to get better soon! (Hopefully, by Monday). If you enjoyed it, leave a kudos or a comment. If you're wondering, the song to which most of this chapter refers is Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant Massacree." You can find me on Tumblr at: thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com.


	10. I Could See Forever in Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the giant Footloose reference you've all been waiting for! :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *squee*  
> I don't own Les Mis or Footloose!  
> *squee*

_**Previously:** _

_As Enjolras rushed away, the poet elbowed the artist. “Are you going to go after him?”_

_Grantaire quizzically peered over at his friend. “What?”_

_“Our friends just made apparent what was going to be an issue sooner or later. You need to tell him.” They gestured to where Enjolras’ form was disappearing in the distance._

_Grantaire gasped, and pressed a kiss to the top of the poet’s head. “Thanks, Jehan.”_

_The cynic took off after the revolutionary he loved._

* * *

 

Enjolras leaned on the edge of a bridge.

He stared blankly at the water, trying to sort through his emotions.

So caught up in thought was he, that he didn’t notice the artist appear at his side. He jumped slightly upon hearing Grantaire hum a tune.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Leaning on his elbows, the artist murmured, “Do you want to tell me what’s eating you?”

Sighing, Enjolras bit his lip. “Oh, I’m fine.”

Grantaire laid his hand over the blonde’s. “No, you’re not. I can see it. What’s the matter?”

“Something Combeferre said got to me a bit.”

“What did he say?”

Enjolras glowered at the artist. “You know damn well. Your fellow choir members asked you the same thing, no doubt.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Grantaire thought. “ _Their interrogation made him uncomfortable._ ” The artist cleared his throat. “I thought we talked about this. Just because they’re determined to make a soap opera out of our lives doesn’t mean we have to do as they wish.”

A ghost of a smile washed over Enjolras’ face. “I know. I appreciate that. I really do, but…”

“But, what?”

“Well, you never really asked me how I felt.” Enjolras’ cobalt eyes flashed up to meet the artist’s. “You just act like I’m some delicate flower that needs to be protected at all costs.”

Grantaire snorted. “You, a delicate flower? Yeah, and the Pope’s atheist.”

“Please, be serious. I mean, before this goddamned road trip, you and I were pretty close. And now, since they played ‘good cop, bad cop,’ half the time you don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me.”

Grantaire’s emotions began to rise. “That’s horseshit.”

“No, it’s not!” The blonde noticed that Grantaire had begun to nervously chew on his nails. “What? Are you afraid, or something? Are you terrified they’ll make fun of us? Are you afraid to commit?”

“Enjolras, stop.”

“No! What the hell has got you so scared?”

The artist growled in frustration. “I’m scared of losing you, goddammit!”

Enjolras was startled into silence.

“I’ve screwed a lot of things up in my life,” Grantaire continued. “You and me? I don’t want to mess this up. You mean more to me than anything. You’re all I ever dreamed about. I was afraid that if I moved too fast, I’d push you away. And I…I kind of assumed you’d tell me what you wanted.”

Grantaire’s fury had ebbed, and now he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck.

Enjolras rolled his eyes affectionately. “I’ve been trying. Christ, how many times did we almost kiss?”

“Too many times.”

Their eyes met again, and both flushed. “I’m sorry for assuming.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more upfront.”

Grantaire grinned. “So, let bygones be bygones? What do you say we give it a fresh start? Try communicating once in a while?”

Enjolras smiled. “Sure.” He paused. “You know, since I’m going to be more upfront from now on, I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

The blonde searched the artist’s face, nervously pursing his lips. “Think you might ever kiss me?”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras a moment, determining that the revolutionary was indeed serious. Reaching out, he let his hand just grace the back of the blonde’s neck, and leaned in, brushing their lips together.

It was brief, and Grantaire pulled back almost immediately. For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was the shallow, shuddering series of inhales and exhales of the two boys.

Seeing the joy in Enjolras’ eyes and the slight upturn of his mouth gave the artist courage, and he brought their mouths together again, harder this time.

The blonde felt his knees grow weak at the sensation he’d been yearning for, and looped his arms around Grantaire’s neck.

The brunet’s arms snaked up under Enjolras’ shoulder blades, serving to support his lover, and bring their bodies closer together.

Eventually, Grantaire whispered, “We should get back.”

Enjolras nodded, still using the artist to hold his weight. “Only if you promise to kiss me when we arrive.”

“Of course.”

* * *

 

Everyone was too busy worrying to notice the lovebirds’ return. Well, everyone except Jehan.

“We’ve ruined it. I just know it,” Cosette wailed.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Éponine sighed miserably. “Stop trying to make us feel better, Prouvaire. We should’ve listened to you.”

Combeferre wiped at his eyeglasses. “I just hope this fight isn’t too severe.”

Jehan put up with several more minutes of their friend’s ho-humming, before they hissed, “You’re all idiots!”

They became silent as the grave. “Excuse me,” Courfeyrac asked, finally.

Jehan merely gestured over their shoulders.

They all turned in unison to see Enjolras and Grantaire slow dancing to a 1980’s love ballad, their mouths swollen and red.

Cosette gasped. “Did they…”

She, and the rest of the Amis, got the answer when Grantaire reached up to kiss her brother once more.

The lovers heard the collective sigh of approval rise from their friends, but they couldn’t care less. Things had never been smooth sailing for the revolutionary and the cynic, but to Enjolras and Grantaire, this was almost paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD! THEY FINALLY KISSED! AHHHHHHHHHHH!  
> Anyway, I know this chapter is really short, really cheesy, and really belies how much I love "Footloose." I have to complete training for my job in a short amount of time, and I have to prepare to return to college, but I didn't want to leave you hanging. You've stuck with this story diligently, and waited long enough. The story isn't over yet, but it might be a while before I get a chance to update. Until then, I love you all very much, and hope you enjoyed! If you did, leave me a comment or a kudos. You can find me on Tumblr at: thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com


	11. Let Your Colors Bleed and Blend With Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire finally sort out their feelings...and a few other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fans self* Is it hot in here, or is it just me?  
> This chapter contains some angst, and some *cough* more mature content. (Calm down; no one gets to home plate).  
> TW: Somewhat dub-con, and self-harm mentions.   
> I don't own Les Mis.   
> Enjoy!

**_Previously:_ **

_Jehan merely gestured over their shoulders._

_They all turned in unison to see Enjolras and Grantaire slow dancing to a 1980’s love ballad, their mouths swollen and red._

_Cosette gasped. “Did they…”_

_She, and the rest of the Amis, got the answer when Grantaire reached up to kiss her brother once more._

_The lovers heard the collective sigh of approval rise from their friends, but they couldn’t care less. Things had never been smooth sailing for the revolutionary and the cynic, but to Enjolras and Grantaire, this was almost paradise._

* * *

 

The artist sat in the back of the microbus, furiously scribbling in his sketchbook, his eyebrows drawn, and his lower lip caught between his teeth. His eyes were sparking with life and imagination.

Enjolras smiled; it was small moments like these that sang of his still-unspoken love for Grantaire.

The blonde gently traced the shape of his own still-swollen lips, reminiscing about the previous night.

* * *

  _They had run away upon noticing their friends’ stares._

_Adrenaline coursed through his veins and his and Grantaire’s feet pounded away from the concert, making a beeline to their room._

_Anticipation sent shivers up Enjolras’ spine when the door closed. Every nerve ending was sparking._

_Grantaire pulled him close; for a moment they gazed into the other’s eyes, and Enjolras’ body calmed ever so slightly. His own love was mirrored in the other man’s eyes._

_The artist leaned in then, slanting his mouth over the revolutionary’s, and just like that, Enjolras’ body was on fire once more._

_Love gave way to lust, and he pushed the artist towards the bed, forcing his knees to buckle as they hit the footboard. Taking advantage of Grantaire’s seated position, Enjolras straddled the artist’s lap._

_Automatically, Grantaire settled one hand low on the blonde’s back, and tangled the other in the flaxen curls, tugging gently._

_The sensation of his love’s hands on his body caused Enjolras to moan wantonly._

_Seeing an opportunity, Grantaire’s hot tongue began plundering the other man’s mouth._

_The blonde mewled, and licked his way into the brunet’s mouth. Tentatively, he brushed his tongue against the ridge just behind Grantaire’s teeth._

_The artist cried out in pleasure, his hips rolling forward of their own accord._

_The heat consuming the blonde’s form simultaneously spread out, and focused itself in his center. His responded in kind, pushing his pelvis hard against the artist’s. Grantaire gasped against Enjolras’ mouth, and his grip shifted, pushing the revolutionary away._

_Suddenly, reality set in, and Enjolras was rocked to the core. Was he taking this too far too quickly?_

_Apparently, he’d asked as much aloud, because Grantaire fumbled for an answer, before stuttering, “I…I’m sorry.” The artist rose, making a mad dash for the other bed._

_Enjolras was reluctant to let the issue go, but he knew better than push Grantaire when he was in such a skittish state._

* * *

 

The blonde sighed, as a lingering spark of the unfulfilled desire still ghosted across his skin. 

* * *

Grantaire was frustrated. Last night had not been easy.

He’d loved Enjolras for a long, long time, body and soul. He’d never expected it to go anywhere.

Then, last night, it did.

For the blonde’s sake, Grantaire had tried to match whatever pace Enjolras set. He hadn’t expected them to move so quickly, but he was not complaining.

Then reality hit the artist like a ton of bricks. He hadn’t thought past that first kiss.

He would have willingly let the night take its course, but it occurred to him that Enjolras was different than anyone else the artist had bedded.

He loved Enjolras. He wanted this to be different, special, even. Enjolras was worth more to him than anything else, and deserved nothing less.

That didn’t make it any less difficult.

Grantaire’s waning self-control loomed over him like a pair of dark wings. This kind of emotional instability left the artist feeling unbalanced and vulnerable.

Unable to do anything else, he vented his frustrations on paper.

When Grantaire was finished, he cast the pencils and the sketchbook aside, sighing in relief. He looked up, meeting Enjolras’ eyes. Wordlessly, he laid his head across the revolutionary’s thighs, quickly falling into a deep sleep.

* * *

 For a while, Enjolras merely watched Grantaire sleep. After a time, he began to grow restless.

The blonde’s eyes wandered, finally falling on the abandoned sketchpad. He squinted at the sketch, which was dominated by dark and heavy strokes.

Awkwardly leaning over the sleeping man in his lap, Enjolras reached out to bring the tablet into view.

His eyes narrowed further. A man stood in the corner of the page, the shadow of devilish-looking wings dominating the page.

The blonde was stricken. The image itself was not was chilling; it was the familiarity.

The man bore an uncanny resemblance to Grantaire.

Now, Enjolras was not an artist, but he knew a thing or two about the human mind. People are most familiar with their own face; it wasn’t uncommon for an artist’s characters to bear some resemblance to themselves. Also, people tended to define each other by one characteristic. This was why most cartoon characters always wore the same outfit constantly.

This was different.

Grantaire had not just given the figure features similar to his own, nor had he inadvertently given the figure one of his more prominent characteristics, making it a passable resemblance.

This figure was undeniably supposed to be him. It was an exact facsimile. It bore the same features, clothing, and tattoos as the slumbering artist.

It disquieted the revolutionary to think that the artist saw himself thusly.

He returned the sketchpad to where the artist had initially thrown it, and resolved to interrogate the artist later that night. He had nearly lost the man he loved once; he was not about to risk that again.

* * *

 Enjolras would not get his chance to question Grantaire that night. Campfires and tents were not made for private discussions. They were made for fellowship, laughter, and singing.

In particular, they were made for off-key, acoustic renditions of various songs. 

* * *

 

As soon as the sun began to set, Grantaire began to tune his guitar. Elbowing Éponine, he began to strum a tune. Her gravelly mezzo glided on a particularly sorrowful country-pop song.

Enjolras’ nerves were set even more on edge by the sepulchral themes of the lyrics. Painful memories of the liminal event between tolerance and love flooded back, and suddenly the scars littering Grantaire’s wrists seemed to blink.

His emotions were just about to burst forth, when Cosette snickered. “Been watching _Glee_ reruns?”

Éponine stuck her tongue out. “You cried just as much as we did, and you know it.”

“So what if I did?”

The tension ended as Feuilly pulled out his harmonica.

Bahorel raised a brow. “Springsteen? Really?”

Feuilly shrugged, his lips never leaving the instrument. He went through a verse before Bossuet’s voice ground out the lyrics; he had a fairly gruff timbre, and couldn’t carry a tune very well.

Enjolras winced at the clumsy man’s vocalizing as he sat next to Grantaire. The artist gave the blonde a nonplussed gaze, muttering, “Brucie doesn’t sound much better.” His fingers began to dance on the strings.

As the song ended, Grantaire shifted keys and started another song.

* * *

 Enjolras didn’t really pay attention after that. He ate the s’mores that were handed to him, and his body moved in rhythm to the seemingly never-ending music.

Time seemed immaterial; he existed, with no thought as to his surroundings.

One by one, his compatriots blearily ambled to their tents, till it was just the revolutionary and the cynic sitting beside the glowing embers.

Enjolras picked up a stick, and shifted the charred bits of wood around.

The gentle song of the guitar met the blonde’s ears.

He actually recognized this one, and he grinned, leaning into the artist’s arm. “Bon Jovi? Really?”

Grantaire stuck his tongue out. “Yes.”

Just as the artist opened his mouth to sing, the revolutionary’s strong baritone interrupted him. Grinning, Grantaire lilted a tenor descant.

In that moment of bliss, Enjolras forgot about the troubling image produced by the artist. 

* * *

 

The next day did not prove as soothing. Enjolras awoke to the soft scratching of Grantaire’s graphite against his paper, and was quickly reminded of the previous sketch.

Thereafter, the blonde refused to leave the artist’s side, giving constant reminders of his feelings.

If one were to ask Enjolras what sights the Amis had seen in their travels, he wouldn’t have been able to answer. His thoughts were too wrapped up in reading the artist’s body language for any destructive tells and formulating how he would confront his love about this touchy topic. 

* * *

 

Grantaire, for his part, was rather a bit irked.

He would not deny that he rather enjoyed the constant presence of Enjolras. However, the seemingly never-ending physical contact was making it that much harder to control himself around the blonde.

How was he supposed to keep himself in check when Enjolras was bestowing hugs, kisses, and endearing words upon him every five minutes?

He thought perhaps that sleeping in separate beds might give him a reprieve. 

* * *

 

As soon as they had their room keys, Grantaire practically sprinted to the room he was to share with Enjolras.

Only pausing to kick off his Converse, the artist flopped on the nearest bed, hoping to fall asleep quickly.

“ _Nothing can happen if I’m unconscious._ ” 

* * *

 

This was actually sound logic, and Grantaire almost made it; he didn’t even hear the blonde enter the room.

The artist was just on the brink of slumber when a weight on the edge of his mattress roused him.

He opened one eye and turned his head to see Enjolras, holding his sketchpad, with a deeply concerned look on his face.

“Grantaire, can we talk?”

Reluctantly, the artist pushed himself up onto his forearms. “About what?”

Enjolras bit his lip, before handing the sketchbook over.

Grantaire smirked bitterly. “If you want it, it’s yours.”

“No, that’s not it. I’m not really the one to ask about artistic interpretations, but this seems to show you with something really dark looming over you. The first night we kissed it ended…rather abruptly. And then, tonight, you ran off almost immediately. It worries me.”

Grantaire sighed. “Don’t. I’m fine.”

The blonde reached out, placing a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Please. I…care about you. Let me help you. If I’ve done something wrong, tell me. I want to make it right.”

The pregnant pause in the revolutionary’s words did not go unnoticed. Grantaire got up, pushing past the blonde and his comforting touch, and leaned heavily against the wall. “You can’t help me. You’ve done nothing wrong, but you can’t help me.”

“Why can’t I help you?”

“Because you’re the problem.”

Enjolras was hurt. “I thought you said I’d done nothing wrong.”

Grantaire groaned, dragging his fingers through his dark curls. “You haven’t!”

The blonde stepped closer to the artist, his voice dropping. “Tell me then! What do you need me to do?”

“No. I won’t. I can’t do that to you.” His next words echoed Enjolras’. “I…care about you, too.”

“If you care, tell me.”

The artist’s eyes fell shut. For a time he was silent, then he replied, “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes. What do you need of me?”

Grantaire voice became a whisper. “I don’t need anything of you. I just need you.”

“Then take me.”

Grantaire lost it. In two long strides he was within an inch of the blond. Grantaire threw Enjolras over his shoulder, and tossed him down on the bed.

Enjolras’ eyes became like saucers, and he swallowed audibly.

Grantaire’s eyes were black. In one fluid movement, his shirt was off, and he was hovering over Enjolras on the bed, his hands on either side of the blonde head, and one knee between Enjolras’ thighs.

Enjolras’ breathing accelerated. The feral look in Grantaire’s eyes was terrifying. The blonde didn’t know whether to be aroused or astonished; the current situation was definitely sexy, but not at all the expected outcome of this discussion. It didn’t seem possible that the artist needed him…that way. “Come on, Grantaire. Be serious.”

The artist leaned in, his mouth next to Enjolras’ ear, and growled, “I am wild.” Grantaire pressed a kiss to Enjolras’ pulse point, and then trailed the curve of the pale throat with his mouth.

Aire sealed his mouth over the junction of Enjolras’ neck and shoulder, biting and sucking till he was certain he’d left a mark. “Mine,” he snarled possessively.

Enjolras gasped through a smile. “Yours,” he whispered.

“Damn right you are.”

Just as he was about to cover Enjolras’ mouth with his, Grantaire froze. He’d let his physical need for the revolutionary trump his love for him.

Instead, he dropped a kiss on Enjolras’ jaw, and rolled off the bed, landing in a sobbing heap. “I’m so, so sorry.”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras whined angrily at the loss of the other man; he’d seen what was coming and eagerly welcomed it. “Grantaire!”

The man in question looked up just in time for Enjolras to haul him to his feet, and push him facedown on the bed. The artist squirmed against the pressure.

“You should be sorry. I wasn’t nearly done with you. Now be still,” Enjolras commanded.

It was Grantaire’s turn to swallow. He had never heard Enjolras use that tone, and quite frankly, never expected him to, but he did as he was told.

Enjolras inspected the tattoos covering the skin of Grantaire’s back. If Aire didn’t understand that Enjolras needed him, too, then he was just going to have to show him. “You’ve really done this to yourself you know. You’ve given me patterns far too easy to follow.”

“What…” Grantaire groaned as Enjolras’ tongue followed the circle of the dreamcatcher on the left side. Enjolras then peppered kisses down the long beaded feathers; first, down the right one following the curve of his spine, second, down the left one, curving around his ribs, and finally down the center feather, the terminal of which disappeared beneath the waistband of Grantaire’s jeans.

Grantaire shivered as Enjolras’ fingers traced the words of Pablo Picasso on his right shoulder blade. “The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls,” Enjolras read, his voice low and sultry.

“ _Sultry? Jesus Christ, Aire, hold yourself together_ ,” the artist thought.

It was easier said than done. Especially when Enjolras’ lips were caressing the sparrow taking flight under his shoulder blade.

Grantaire whimpered. He needed to stop the blonde before they did something they both regretted, but Enjolras was turning him to a quivering pile of jelly with only his _tongue_.

Enjolras rose up onto his haunches far enough to roll Grantaire back over.

The blonde flicked the fleur-de-lis on the right side of Aire’s chest. “I know you wear that ironically, but I still hate it.”

Grantaire nearly screamed, at this point unable to form words.

Enjolras surveyed the thin white lines crisscrossing Grantaire’s abs. More evidence of how depressed Aire had once been. Their numerousness broke Enjolras’ heart. He bent down and pressed kisses down the length of every one.

One of the scars intersected with another tattoo. On Grantaire’s right hipbone was the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. Enjolras pressed an open mouthed kiss to the triangle.

Grantaire was unable to keep his hips from thrusting up slightly. Enjolras grinned wickedly.

“You play dirty,” Grantaire said, finding his voice, his eyes accusing.

Enjolras hauled himself up, and pulled Grantaire into a sitting position. The revolutionary drew as close to Grantaire as was physically possible, rolling his hips to elicit another filthy moan from the artist. “Jesus Christ.”

“You always told me I was Apollo.” With that, Enjolras brought his mouth closer to the other man’s.

Damn, he liked where this was going. Who wouldn’t? Still, he had to try. “Enjolras, wait.”

The blonde raised a brow, obviously annoyed. “What?”

“I shouldn’t have asked this of you. I don’t want to force you…”

Enjolras smirked, brushing his lips over the artist’s eyelids. “Does it look like I’m being forced? I want this. I wanted this the first night you kissed me. I want _you._ ” He bit his lip. “Do you not want me?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I think I’ve made _that_ fairly clear, Enjolras. But…I can’t do this to you.”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I already told you I’m not some delicate…”

Grantaire cut him off. “I know you’re not. That’s not it. I just…you’re so special to me…”

Enjolras grew impatient. “Spit it out.”

“I love you, goddammit!”

The blonde’s eyes became like saucers, and for once, he was at a loss for words. Grantaire continued on, oblivious to the revolutionary’s shock. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re just another lay to me. You mean more to me than anything in the world, and you deserve far better than what I have to give. I don’t want to do anything in the heat of the moment and lose you. I want it to be special for you, too.”

Enjolras regained his voice. “It will be, as long as I’m with the man I love.”

“Come again?”

He cupped the artist’s cheek. “Grantaire, we could properly break in Courf’s van tonight, or we could wait until the winter holiday, in my parents’ mansion. I don’t care where or when it happens, just so long as I’m with you." 

* * *

 

Nobody said a word to Grantaire or Enjolras the next morning.

They didn’t need to.

If the red marks up and down their necks weren’t telling enough, the looks of pure adoration the two men shared were pure gospel.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? If you did, leave a comment or a kudos! Thank you to all who have done so before, and to those who have bookmarked this story!  
> I mentioned dub-con because Grantaire is randy, and thinks he doesn't have consent, because Enjolras is not explicit about his intentions.  
> You can find me on Tumblr at: thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com


	12. Epilogue: If You're By My Side, I'm Satisfied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Every story has an end. But in life, every ending is just a new beginning." - Ray, Uptown Girls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the road trip (and this story) ends, a denouement appears. Loose ends are tied up, and the story ends in a tidy fashion. At least, that's the theory. No story truly ends; it lives on in our hearts and minds. While the road trip comes to an end, the doors to endless possibilities open.   
> I hope you enjoy this very short final chapter.  
> As always, I don't own Les Mis.

_Six Months Later_

Cosette had offered to go with her brother, but Enjolras insisted that it was a moment he wanted to share with only Grantaire.

“You’re sure,” the artist asked for the fiftieth time that day.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Yes! I’m sure, Grantaire!”

The brunet held up his hands defensively. “I’m just asking, Enj!” 

* * *

 

Enjolras gritted his teeth. He’d never really been a fan of needles, which was one of many reasons he’d never even considered a tattoo before.

It was an unpleasant sensation for sure, but Enjolras braved through it.

* * *

 It was over before Enjolras even realized it. He lifted his arm to survey the freshly inked skin. “It’s beautiful, Aire.”

The artist scoffed. “It’s three straight lines.”

Enjolras didn’t answer; instead, he merely pulled Grantaire down into a hard kiss.

The brunet blushed as the blonde pulled away. Hoping to maintain some composure, he began to bandage the area. “So, we’ll finish here, and then we’ll go to my place, and we can get some take-out. Does that sound good?”

“Yes. Let’s go home.”

* * *

 Enjolras sat on Grantaire’s couch, staring at the bandage around his first tattoo, lost in thought.

“You’re not regretting the decision already? You’ve only had it for a few hours.”

The blonde looked up into the face of his beloved artist, and smiled.

“Of course not. I get to carry a piece of your soul on my skin.”

Grantaire leaned down, placing a kiss on his revolutionary’s lips. “How poetic. Jehan would be proud.”

Enjolras smirked.

The artist perched on the edge of the sofa, pensively sipping at a glass of wine.

The blonde leaned into the other man’s side. “What is it? I can see the gears turning.”

Grantaire cleared his throat, avoiding Enjolras’ gaze. “You’re always welcome here. You know that?”

The blonde’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yes. What are you talking about, Grantaire?”

He bit his lip. “Earlier tonight, you said, ‘Let’s go home.’”

Enjolras’ cheeks turned red. It had been a slip of the tongue. He spent so much time here with Grantaire that he began to feel more comfortable here than with the apartment he paid rent on and the friends who cohabitated it. “Should I not have?”

“No! That’s not it at all! It’s just…I’m glad you consider this place your home. It’s always been yours.” He reached into his pocket. “I thought you might need this.”

The artist pressed something small and smooth into the blonde’s hand.

Enjolras looked down to see the silver key Grantaire had given him, and beamed.

Made nervous by the blonde’s silence the artist rambled, “I know it’s not much, but it’s yours if you’re happy here.”

The blonde simply kissed the brunet. “I’m happy as long as you’re by my side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader, we have finally reached the end of the line. What a wonderful journey it was! This started out as a drabble I wrote late one night, and it's blossomed into something so much more. I feel completely undeserving of all the positive feedback from you all. Thank you for sharing this "road trip" with me, and for making it a wonderful journey. Please, if you've enjoyed the story, give me one last comment or kudos.   
> You can always find me at: thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it! If so, leave a comment or a kudos.  
> You can find me on Tumblr at: thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com


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